


Out of the Looking Glass

by braccii, exile_wrath, lily_winterwood



Series: A Thousand Shattered Mirrors [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Additional Warnings in Notes, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Federal Agents, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Background Phichit Chulanont/Christophe Giacometti - Freeform, Black Humor, Body Horror, Cameos from Hannibal characters, Corpse Illustrations, Dark Character, Dark Comedy, Domesticity, Drug Use, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Other tags to be added, Past Phichit Chulanont/Seung-gil Lee, Psychological Horror, To Be Continued, Tribute to Bryan Fuller, Vantablack Humor, Vicchan Lives, Washington DC, dead dove do not eat, quantico
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-21 07:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14279553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braccii/pseuds/braccii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/exile_wrath/pseuds/exile_wrath, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: After his breakdown in a police station in New York City, FBI Supervisory Special Agent and profiler Yuuri Katsuki finds himself back home on medical leave. As he fights his way to recovery, he also must examine his relationship with his supermodel boyfriend Viktor Nikiforov, and determine the fate of their connection.





	1. Falling Apart Without You

**Author's Note:**

> “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.” — Friedrich Nietzsche, _Beyond Good and Evil_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON A THOUSAND SHATTERED MIRRORS:  
> Phichit: There's a lot of dead people who look like you, Yuuri.  
> Yuuri: The unsub is modelling these bodies off of some random Asian guy with black hair and blue glasses who is someone that this unsub loves. They are killing these people as surrogates for this random Asian guy who just happens to look like me.  
> Phichit: What if it _is_ you?  
>  Yuuri: Sounds fake but ok. I'm just a dime-a-dozen FBI agent. It can't be me. I hardly ever show my face in public.  
> Phichit: Okay, but Seung-gil got blinded because his eyes were the wrong shade of brown —  
> Yuuri, putting his hands to his ears: LALALALALALALALALA  
> Phichit: — and there were a lot of dye jobs —  
> Yuuri: I'M A DIME-A-DOZEN FBI AGENT  
> Phichit: — and some guy who has the wrong vocal register got his vocal cords ripped out —  
> Yuuri: DIME. A DOZEN.  
> Phichit: Seung-gil literally said "My name is Yuuri Katsuki" and spouted off your information like he was reading your nonexistent Wikipedia page.  
> Yuuri: .....AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH  
> Everyone: What the —  
> Yuuri: AAAAAあああああああアァアァアァ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings at the end of this chapter.
> 
> Wrath, sitting on top of more corpses: 'Sup. Here we go again.  
> Lily: Get off the corpse pile Wrath that's unsanitary  
> Wrath: I'll make sure to disinfect them before I display them  
> Lily: That's not — You missed the point —  
> Wrath: Don't worry! They'll be nice and pretty for you all!  
> Lily: Someday the real FBI are going to ask me to testify against you in court. And I will.

_October 7, 2017  
Dr Otabek Altin’s Office, Baltimore_

The office is shadowy, calming, carefully curated in shades of blue and slate grey. The ceiling is carefully blank, with only small ceiling lights in the plaster and a hairline crack in the crown molding on the opposite wall. The curtains diffuse the bright mid-morning sun, softening its glare just inches from Yuuri’s upturned gaze as he quietly measures the beats of his own heart.

“So, Agent Katsuki,” the low, calming voice of Dr Otabek Altin resounds from from across the sleek mahogany coffee table. Yuuri looks back at him; he’s dressed sharply in a black suit, his dark hair carefully gelled back and a ballpoint pen imperiously poised on a blank page of his notebook. Every pore on his face seems to emanate calm. “Tell me why you’re here.”

Yuuri’s hands scrunch at his knees. “You want the full story?” he asks.

“I’ve been following it, off and on,” replies Dr Altin. “I want the story that directly leads to you being here, in this office, staring at me.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, his breath shaky. “Okay then.”

* * *

_September 29, 2017  
Apartment 221B Broome Street, New York City_

Phichit tears into the apartment like a small tornado, tossing clothes haphazardly all over the place as he attempts to figure out which outfits are Yuuri’s and which are his. Over on the couch, Yuuri sits with his heart made of lead and his feet unable to propel him over to his friend’s side to assist in his endeavours at packing Yuuri’s suitcase.

“Christophe’s booked you the 10 PM train down to D.C.; we’ll take you out to Penn Station once I’m done packing this for you,” Phichit’s saying. Yuuri tries to slow down the racing of his heart by taking deep breaths, but each inhale through his lungs reminds him of how Martin Shieh is missing his. Each bite of his lips reminds him of Hyun-min Han, each blink of his eyes reminds him of Seung-gil Lee. He can barely even rock back and forth on his feet, remembering the stumps at the base of Eric Trentwood’s legs.

He wants to say something, but he’s certain that if he opens his mouth right now he’s going to start screaming again, and no one needs to hear that, least of all him. The landlady’s going to come knocking, and probably try to call the police, and the police will arrive and say _oh, it’s just Agent Katsuki. He lost his mind today down at the 24th Precinct; didn’t you hear_?

“ _Thousands of mourners lined the streets today at the funeral procession for NYPD Detective Seung-gil Lee. Detective Lee was a victim of an Angel of Mercy killer, Sara Crispino, who had been his nurse while he was recovering from his injuries sustained at the hands of the now-infamous Couture Cutter. The Mayor of New York reaffirmed her dedication to bringing this killer, who has been terrorising the city’s Asian population for the past five years, to justice, saying that the NYPD and the FBI are working in tandem as hard as they can to try and catch —_ ”

Yuuri shuts off the television, his hands trembling. Phichit re-enters the living room with a wheeled suitcase packed to the brim; Yuuri fiddles with the handle as he tries to avoid looking his friend and flatmate directly in the eyes.

Phichit’s pitying look is not something he can stomach right now.

“If you find yourself missing something, text me and I’ll try to ship it down,” says Phichit. “And promise me if you find some of my stuff in there, you’ll send it back up? Preferably with some winter coats; it’s going to get chilly soon.”

Yuuri nods, twisting the luggage tag on the suitcase with a determined stare. It’s got little blue poodles on it, which he’d gotten because they reminded him of Vicchan. Perhaps this Christmas he’ll fly home to Hasetsu and see her again; it’s been far too long.

The door unlocks, and Christophe comes in with a bag full of bánh mì sandwiches from the Vietnamese deli downstairs. Yuuri bites into his with some trepidation, unsure of whether or not he can keep down his food at all. His phone pings with a message; he casts a brief glance towards the screen.

_I watched the funeral on the news today :( My deepest sympathies to you. Let me know if you’re ok <3_

Yuuri closes out of the message without a response. He finishes the sandwich with trembling fingers, before grabbing the handle of his suitcase.

“It’s not time to go yet,” Christophe says.

Yuuri shakes his head. The sooner he gets out of the city, out of the range of this monster who seems to lurk in his every shadow, the better.

* * *

_October 7, 2017  
Dr Altin’s Office, Baltimore_

“They changed his name after news got out that I had left the case,” Yuuri says quietly, staring down at his nails. Dr Altin hums, jotting something down in his notebook. “I mean, I don’t think they did it to make fun of me, of course — they were probably looking for something more encompassing than ‘Couture Cutter’ given that some of the bodies weren’t in haute couture, but sometimes I wonder if it’s sort of his last jab at me. A challenge to get me to come back.”

“He?” echoes Dr Altin.

“The unsub,” replies Yuuri. “The press call him the Katsuki Killer now.” And he shudders, because he’d spent every minute since the first use of the new name denying that such a change ever happened. Katsuki Killer is too final, too personal. Too diametrically opposed to himself.

No doubt the unsub loves it, though, to be held in such direct opposition to him. It’s a game of cat and mouse, but neither of them are truly ever just the cat or just the mouse.

“It does fit the main thread of the bodies,” Dr Altin notes.

“But it’s not comforting at all,” Yuuri points out.

“Definitely not,” agrees Dr Altin. “And now everyone uses it?”

“Phichit and Christophe don’t,” says Yuuri, just as his phone pings with another text from Viktor.

_How have you been? :)_

Yuuri ignores it, just like the others. Viktor has texted him a hello and a goodnight for the past week. But he cannot bring himself to talk to anyone currently in New York. Even work-related things from Phichit and Christophe take him a while to actually respond to.

Almost as if on cue, he gets another email from Phichit about yet another body. On instinct, he opens up the email, skimming Phichit’s questions about how he’s doing in D.C. before opening the attachment.

“Mr Katsuki?” asks Dr Altin, his eyebrows furrowing and his voice strangely flat. Yuuri blinks, and then realises that he’d unconsciously reached up to grab his ears.

“Sorry,” he says automatically, lowering his hands. “I’d — It’s. It’s work.”

“You’re on medical leave,” Dr Altin points out bluntly. “You’re not going back to work until I say you can.”

“The _killer’s_ not on a holiday,” Yuuri mutters petulantly.

“You’re not the killer,” Dr Altin reminds him.

“I might as well be!” Yuuri shoves the phone at the psychiatrist, with the image of a man staring sightlessly up at the camera plastered across the screen. He’s framed by trash bags, some of them split open with their contents bursting out like pus from an infected wound. Flies buzz around his head in a perversion of a halo, attracted by the rot and the two red ovals on the sides of his head where his ears had previously been. A sliver of bone peeks out on the left side.

His arms, draped over the garbage, have large chunks of skin cut from them in neat squares like a patchwork quilt of flesh and muscle. Yuuri takes a moment to be grateful for the fact that they’re only looking at photographs; he can’t imagine what it must have been like to be there in person, smelling the decay and the refuse all around.

Dr Altin leans back from the phone like it’s contagious. “Yes, I can’t imagine why you’d be here,” he intones drily.

“The unsub just cut him up like scrap fabric and tossed him away!”

“Medical leave, Mr Katsuki,” Dr Altin points out.

“How can you be so calm when people are dying out there?”

“Because people die every day, and my concern rests with the living. Specifically you, who’s clearly looked at too much death in the past few months.”

“It’s not the ‘killer’ part that gets me,” Yuuri snaps. “It’s the ‘Katsuki’ part. I can handle a little death, it comes with the job — it’s just… it’s just not as easy to separate yourself when death is wearing _your_ face.” He pauses. “How would you feel if —”

“No, we’re _not_ pursuing that line of inquiry,” declares Dr Altin. He steeples his fingers, crosses his legs. “But for the record, I’d move back to Almaty, if it were me.”

“Are you suggesting I move back to California?”

Dr Altin shrugs. “Whatever is best for your mental health,” he says.

“One of the bodies was _from_ California,” Yuuri points out. “If anything, I suspect the unsub would follow me there if word got out I’d left.”

“And he hasn’t already found out that you’re out of the city?” asks Dr Altin.

“Maybe by the next press conference.” Yuuri agitatedly fiddles with his phone, closes the photo gallery with a sigh. “I — I can’t go home. I can’t bring him with me.”

There’s a long pause, before Dr Altin raises an eyebrow and gestures to the phone. “Are you going to keep on looking at these pictures while you’re on medical leave?” he asks. “You can’t ask your colleagues to stop sending them?”

“No,” says Yuuri automatically. “I need to be kept up to date. It just isn’t right otherwise, given that they died because of me.”

“They died because _someone else_ thinks they can play god,” Dr Altin replies, his expression hard. “You don’t have to hang yourself because of them. This killer is ultimately responsible for their deaths. Not you. And I will say that as many times as you need to hear it.”

Yuuri rubs at his temples. For a moment, all that can be heard in the room is the sound of the air conditioning, and the distant clack of the receptionist’s keyboard. Finally, Dr Altin sighs.

“Look, Mr Katsuki,” he says placatingly. “I know you want to get back in the field. But I don’t think it’s a wise thing for you to face the horrors of your job alone. Every time you get an email from work, come and see me. You can look at them in a safe environment, and I will help you through it. Okay?”

Yuuri clenches his teeth. “The killer doesn’t seem to sleep,” he points out sourly.

“Unfortunately, _I_ have to sleep. So if the killer strikes again when _I_ am asleep, do you think you’d be able to hold off from looking at the bodies until you’re here?”

Yuuri nods tersely. “I’ll try,” he says.

“That sounds like the best response I’ll get from you,” replies Dr Altin, and leans back in his seat. “Same time, next week?”

Yuuri slowly rises to his feet. “Or earlier, depending on the killer,” he says.

“I’ll keep you pencilled in,” replies Dr Altin, with a calm smile. For once, Yuuri finds himself smiling back.

Out in the parking lot, his phone pings with another text from Viktor. It’s a photograph of Makkachin, along with the caption _He misses you as much as I do :)_.

Yuuri still doesn’t respond.

* * *

_October 13, 2017  
FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia_

Yuuri visits Quantico on a Friday.

It’s almost as if he’s a ghost in the halls of the FBI Academy, given how hushed and grave everyone seems to be whenever they spot him. Cadets and trainees give him a wide berth, whispering quietly to themselves about him. _Agent Katsuki_ , they murmur to one another, _the target of the Katsuki Killer_. Even here among his colleagues he can’t escape the name.

He slips into the back of the lecture hall where Professor Graham holds his criminology classes. His former mentor is there, revising a stack of notes at the desk. Without even looking up, he says, “Hello, Agent Katsuki.”

“Hello Professor,” says Yuuri, gesturing to one of the chairs. “May I?”

“Help yourself.” Professor Graham looks up, adjusts his glasses. “I heard you’re on medical leave.”

Yuuri sighs, mirroring his mentor awkwardly. “Yeah. It’s… I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Understandable.” Professor Graham organises the notes, pushing them to the corner of the desk and capping his pen with a loud click. “Given the nature of the corpses, I could certainly see why you’d be taken off the case.”

“I wasn’t _taken_ off,” Yuuri insists. “I took myself off. There’s a bit of a difference.”

A brief flicker of surprise flickers across Professor Graham’s face. “That’s… remarkably prescient of you,” he says. “No good comes from chasing down people who prefer to nest in your shadows.”

Yuuri shudders at his wording. “That’s definitely one way to put it,” he mutters. “So you’ve been following the case?”

“Everyone has,” says Professor Graham. “It’s remarkable. What should be a textbook serial killer is not so textbook at all when you consider the overlapping victims, the alternating patterns of remorse and overkill, the seemingly arbitrary MOs — your unsub is clearly self-aware, despite harbouring a very complex delusion.”

“Self-aware,” echoes Yuuri. “I’d thought, perhaps, that he’d know more than he let on, but —”

Professor Graham gets up, walks over to the desk. For a moment Yuuri is brought back to his trainee days, remaining behind after class to ask questions of his mentor despite Professor Graham’s infamous reputation for antisocialness. He looks down at the ugly speckling on the desk, fingers idly tracing the initials carved into the laminate by a previous student.

“The pictures of the few corpses that I have seen indicate someone who is incredibly in control of themselves, no matter how haphazard the mutilations are, or how rushed they seem.” Professor Graham takes a seat on the desk, drumming his fingers against the desk as he looks off into the distance. “His motives for doing so are complex. They’re never something as simple as baiting the police, shaming the victim, or drawing attention to his skill. Each one conveys a specific message to a variety of people. And those messages aren’t just plain emotions, they’re… they’re paragraphs of meaning. It’s like — it’s like a bouquet.”

Yuuri jolts at that. He looks up in alarm at Professor Graham, but his mentor continues on.

“You get a bouquet from someone, and on the surface you’ll simply see pretty flowers. Depending on the appearance, or the number, that bouquet may convey something simple such as an apology, a love declaration, or gratefulness. Most florists design them along those lines, only utilising flowers for their aesthetic values.”

Yuuri nods, staring ahead at the empty screen and trying not to remember Martin Shieh.

“However,” Professor Graham says with a small clap, “there is the practice of floriography, in which someone versed in all the meanings and phrases associated with every individual species and variety of flower can convey complex messages within a single arrangement. The inclusion of certain kinds of flowers, their position within the bouquet, whether their leaves are left on or not — all of them have meaning. Textbook serial killers talk of simple emotions and messages. Your unsub is a floriographer.”

Yuuri drums his fingers irritably on the desk. “First an innkeeper, now a floriographer,” he mutters. “What’s next, an auteur?”

Professor Graham looks sharply at him, squints a little. “An innkeeper?” he asks. “Like who, Procrustes?”

Yuuri looks up at the ceiling. “Of course _you_ would get that reference,” he says.

Professor Graham tilts his head in a manner not unlike a magpie spotting something particularly shiny. “Is that the conclusion you reached? That he’s Procrustes, and you’re the iron bed?”

Yuuri looks down, suddenly registering a pain in his palms. Slowly, he forces himself to unclench his hands, digging out his fingernails from the red crescents they’ve left behind in his palms. Professor Graham looks down as well, his expression mildly concerned.

“I’m sorry, you’re on medical leave. I shouldn’t have said that,” he says.

Yuuri makes a mental note to cut his fingernails. “It’s all right,” he says. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. And honestly, I’d rather people not treat me like I’m going to go mad, just because I’m here on medical leave.”

“Well, it _is_ an occupational hazard,” Professor Graham remarks lightly.

Yuuri laughs, a single harsh bark. “Unfortunately,” he agrees drily. “But besides the floriography thing, do you happen to have any other insights?”

Professor Graham takes off his glasses and polishes them as he gets up and steps back from the desk, his eyes glazing over with thought. “Like I said, your unsub is remarkably self-aware. You’re not going to trap him by playing games with the media or any of the other usual FBI traps set for your garden-variety serial killer. He has utter self-control and discipline. Not just in regards to these corpses, but also in his regular life. Whoever your unsub is, he is not beholden to _anyone_. Except, perhaps, you.”

Yuuri grins, a little self-deprecatingly. “It’s not like I can ask him on the news to stop, though, can I?”

Professor Graham grins in return. “A serial killer stopping just because the FBI asked them nicely? What a tender world that would be,” he replies. “But — perhaps, considering that you are his muse. I wouldn’t recommend trying it out, though.”

“You said he wasn’t textbook,” Yuuri recalls. “You also make him out to be kind of a psychopath, whereas I never quite read that when I saw the bodies. Is that how you see him?”

Professor Graham shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know,” he admits. “I find that psychopathy tends to be a label slapped onto the minds of people we cannot comprehend.” He pauses. “Much like autism.”

“But…” Yuuri prompts.

“But if we’re talking about your unsub, I’d say, once again, that he has utter control over himself. If he is not psychopathic, as you seem to believe, then he at least has extremely fine-tuned compartmentalisation skills. He could almost become two different people, depending on which side of him you engage with. Each persona he adopts is more than just a mask. It’s a full-bodied costume.”

Yuuri’s expression flattens at the recall of a certain case a couple years back. “What, like a fursuit?” he asks.

Professor Graham flinches almost instinctively. “Let’s not bring that up again,” he mutters. “I’ve had enough jokes from Price to last me a lifetime.”

“But —”

“Yes.” Professor Graham’s tone is flat. “If you must put it that way, yes. Like a _fursuit_. But I would personally akin it to different outfits you wear for different occasions. You wear different clothes to sleep than you do for work. Or for partying.” There’s a pointed silence at the end, and Yuuri’s cheeks heat up at the memory of the one time he’d showed up to Professor Graham’s class hungover and in the previous night’s clubbing outfit.

“So.”

“What?”

“So like how you put on a fursuit to go to a furry convention?”

Professor Graham openly grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Now you’re just being obtuse,” he complains. “Are you bringing up that case just to reopen my own traumas?”

“No, I’m —” Yuuri chuckles. “I’m just wondering if I could actually get you to say those words.”

“I should’ve failed you,” declares Professor Graham, though there’s no bite to his words.

“You couldn’t have,” Yuuri points out. “I was top of the class. I did _everything_ you assigned, even the last-minute ones. The _literal_ last-minute ones.”

Professor Graham rolls his eyes, but says nothing. Yuuri leans back in his seat, and a comfortable silence fills the space between them. For a moment, Yuuri could pretend almost as if he’s a trainee again, and he’s just gone to Professor Graham’s office hours to ask for advice on a paper.

But then the moment shatters in the form of the classroom door banging open and a portly, dark-skinned man storming inside. Under the light, Yuuri recognises him as the former Section Chief of the BAU, who’d reportedly turned to being a Dean of the Academy in his retirement from active duty.

“Crawford.” Professor Graham’s voice is pleasant, slightly surprised. “What brings _you_ out of the dungeon today?”

“Katsuki,” snaps Crawford without preamble. “You’re on medical leave. Don’t think that none of us know what you’re doing here.”

Yuuri arches an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise visiting my _favourite_ professor was against the law.”

“It isn’t, but you are on _medical leave_.” Crawford crosses his arms.

Yuuri sighs. “And _why_ , exactly, are you harping on about that?” he asks.

“Because when you’re on medical leave, that means you’re to have _no_ exposure to _any_ of your cases outside of your doctor’s office,” replies Crawford. “ _Especially_ the Katsuki Killer one.”

Yuuri flinches. “And how do _you_ know I’m on medical leave?” he demands.

Professor Graham coughs awkwardly. “There was a staff meeting,” he mumbles, almost contrite. Somehow, that partly explains every single look he’s received today.

“Director Hobbs believed it best to help you facilitate your speedy recovery by making sure you did not engage with any cases that may trigger you.”

“Trigger,” repeats Yuuri. “She thinks I have PTSD?”

“Well, not really,” says Professor Graham. “But people in our line of work tend to amass traumas like trophies of war.” He mouths something that looks suspiciously like ‘fursuits’ at Crawford, who goes grey and also visibly flinches, stepping back towards the door.

“Just… get out of here, Katsuki,” he says, with a pointed grimace towards Professor Graham, whose grin has way too many teeth. “Take care of yourself. Don’t go near here, or the FBI Building.” He pauses. “Or _him_.”

“Jack, you make it sound like I’m contagious,” Professor Graham drawls, with a pout.

“I dunno, Will,” Crawford retorts. “You’ve sure infected Katsuki with your work habits.”

Almost as if on cue, both Yuuri and Professor Graham reach up to adjust their glasses. With a vindicated glare, Crawford gestures towards the door.

“I rest my case,” he snaps. “Now _leave_.”

Again, as if on cue, Professor Graham and Yuuri look at each other with the exact same deer-in-the-headlights expression. Reluctantly, Yuuri clambers to his feet, and heads for the door.

Professor Graham walks him over, a placid smile firmly on his face. “It was good to see you again, Yuuri,” he says, reaching out to shake his hand. Yuuri takes it with a quizzical look; Professor Graham was notorious for preferring the company of dogs to humans. Getting a handshake from him was akin to finding a childhood idol in one’s bathtub. Even then, Yuuri would have betted on finding Stéphane Lambiel at his family’s motel than getting a handshake from Professor Graham.

It’s only when he’s made his way out to his car that he finds Professor Graham’s business card tucked into his cuff.

* * *

_October 15, 2017  
_ _Au Bon Pain, Washington, D.C._

“So, Yuuri-kun, were you ever going to tell me that you’re back in town, or was I supposed to find out from Takeshi?”

Yuuri almost chokes on his croissant. He turns around, and nearly collides with an incredibly pretty (and incredibly cross) young woman with her hair tied in a ponytail. “Yuuko —” he manages, but she clicks her tongue at him.

“ _Yuu-chan_ , remember?” she corrects reprovingly. “You’ve only been gone a couple months! It’s like I don’t even know you anymore! Like we didn’t grow up together, and you weren’t my best man, and we didn’t nearly plan that three —”

“Yuu-chan!” Yuuri shrieks. “ _Hisashiburi!”_ The Japanese flies out of him in desperate preservation, though it does nothing to deter the curious stares from the people around them. Some of who, to his growing horror, are colleagues on lunch break.

Yuuko Nishigori grins from ear to ear, before descending upon him in a smothering, slightly bone-breaking hug. Yuuri desperately gasps for air somewhere between her cleavage. “How are you doing, Yuuri-kun? Really, _were_ you ever going to say anything?”

“I — uh — what?” As if on cue, Takeshi Nishigori slides into the booth across from him. Yuuko releases him and plunks herself down in the seat next to him, barring his escape. Yuuri turns and momentarily contemplates the feasibility of using the window as an exit.

“You were so busy thinking about something in that head of yours that you didn’t even hear me calling out to you fifteen minutes ago,” Takeshi declares. Yuuri blinks, looking down at his phone which had been lying on the table, his messaging app open to his conversation with Viktor.

Yuuko, predictably, makes a grab for the phone, but Yuuri miraculously saves it from her larceny attempt, pocketing it securely in the pocket on his other side.

“So,” he says, voice betraying his panic, “what brings you here?”

Takeshi rolls his eyes. “Oh, you know, _lunch_. And then I saw my childhood friend, who ignored me. Several _times_ , like he was leaving me on _read_. So I called for backup.”

All Yuuri can do is laugh nervously. “Didn’t you guys get the memo? I’m basically _persona non grata_ to the FBI. I have, like, the Black Plague.”

Yuuko snorts. “You think some memo’s going to stop us? We were friends long before we joined the Bureau. I’m always going to talk to you. Even when you’re six feet under.”

Surprisingly, that actually seems comforting. Yuuri relaxes at it, feeling the smile on his face for the first time in ages. “How are you two doing?” he asks. “How are the triplets?”

“Same old, same old,” says Takeshi in a tone of affected calm. “You know, asking every day when they can hang out with Uncle Yuuri again.”

Yuuri chuckles. “I guess I can do that now, since I’m back. And fortunately, this time I’m on medical leave, so they’re not going to find my case pictures.”

Yuuko snorts. “Well, last week they got into the Kobayashi case files,” she says, and Yuuri startles in recognition of the name.

“Wait, the _child pornographer_?” he demands, cringing at the mental image of the triplets’ reactions. Yuuko nods gravely.

“Yeah,” she says. “Not a fun talk. I think they’d rather take _your_ case files over ours.”

Yuuri nods. “I suppose violence against adults is more palatable at that age.”

Takeshi’s eyes narrow. “Have you been talking to Professor Graham again?”

“That’s classified,” Yuuri says.

“That’s bullshit,” counters Takeshi.

Yuuri clears his throat. “Anyway, how _is_ the Kobayashi case doing?” he asks, in an obvious attempt at deflection. Yuuko takes the bait anyway, heaving a sigh and resting her forehead onto the table.

“Not well,” she sighs. “Our tipline’s been flooded with false alarms lately.”

“False alarms?” echoes Yuuri.

Yuuko rubs at her temples. “Some punks on the internet have been trying to convince us that some artist drawing pictures of _completely fictional_ teenagers having sex was akin to child pornography,” she groans. “We had to follow up on it, and, of course, found nothing else on that artist. But then there were a bunch of others, and we had to follow up on _those_ , too, just in case. It kept snowballing, and it wasted _so_ much time and resources.”

“Meanwhile, Kobayashi’s gone off the grid,” growls Takeshi. “He hasn’t uploaded anything to the usual dark web sites. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“I bet we could’ve caught him if we weren’t so busy dealing with all the false alarms,” Yuuko adds, rolling her eyes. “But you know, we have to search through those claims just in case we _do_ find something noteworthy. The majority of it’s just bullshit, though.”

“That’s a shame,” says Yuuri. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He polishes off his croissant, not really knowing what else to say. “Any good news, though?”

“The triplets have landed roles in the Halloween play,” replies Takeshi. “They’re the witches in _Macbeth_.”

“Wanna see the pictures?” asks Yuuko eagerly, pulling out her phone. Yuuri coos at the photograph of the three little girls in their matching black costumes.

“They’re adorable,” he says.

“Cutest witches ever,” agrees Takeshi. “They really would like to see you again, and, since you’re in town…”

“Yeah.” Yuuri nods, smiling. “I’d like to see them too. I could babysit them for you, if you’d like?”

“Maybe we’ll call on you to babysit whenever we gotta go overtime on the Kobayashi case?” asks Yuuko.

Yuuri shrugs. “Well, I’m on medical leave. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

* * *

_October 21, 2017  
Dr Altin’s Office, Baltimore_

“We’ve discussed your relationship with the other victims,” Dr Altin begins a week later. Outside the skies are overcast, greying sunlight filtering onto the dust motes dancing in the office. “But Seung-gil Lee was the closest one to you, if not emotionally, then at least by proximity. You’ve told me how your friends reacted to his death. But I’ve never heard about how _you_ reacted.”

Yuuri drums his fingers on the armrest of the chair. “There’s not much to say,” he admits. “I was trying to keep Phichit afloat.”

“But surely you must have felt something, just as you did with the other victims.”

Yuuri pauses, uncrossing his legs and looking to the side. “Seung-gil’s death weighs differently on me,” he says, his voice hesitant and slow. “He was subjected to the same transformation. He suffered greatly, as the others had, but —” He cuts off, searching for the rest of the words somewhere above the windowsill. “Seung-gil Lee died as Seung-gil Lee. He was himself in the end, not a copy of me.”

Dr Altin says nothing to that, only raises an eyebrow. Yuuri sighs, now fiddling with his hands in his lap. There’s a ping from his phone; he checks the notification briefly and pockets it again.

“This might be strange to say but… his death sort of gave me hope.” He adjusts his glasses, feeling a strange lump in his throat. “The rest died at the whims of the unsub. Whims that we’ve been trying to decipher in order to catch him. But Seung-gil was able to seize his own fate and escape, and he gave us important information as a result. If it hadn’t been for Ms Crispino —” and here his voice breaks a little, wavering and fragile, “he would’ve been able to live on as himself. Maybe traumatised, maybe blind, but still himself. And that’s more than what could be said for the others.”

Dr Altin hums. “So in regards to Seung-gil Lee, you focused more on his recovery than his death.”

Yuuri nods. Dr Altin chuckles, a little sardonic.

“I’ll have to admit, that’s a much healthier mindset than I was expecting of you.”

Yuuri shrugs. “Well, he was very memorable,” he says. “He wasn’t posed like the rest. The memory of him snarking at Ms Crispino for the hospital’s awful food sticks with me more than the appearance of his corpse.” He pauses, allowing a small smile to slip onto his face. “Even during his funeral, I didn’t feel as much of a loss as Phichit did, or the rest of the NYPD. Part of me didn’t feel the need to mourn. Seung-gil had entertained the possibility that he would die in the line of duty, as all law enforcement do; the other victims were just civilians. So with him, I wasn’t paying my respects to a victim of the unsub; I was paying them to a fallen hero instead.”

“And what makes one so different from the other?” asks Dr Altin.

“The only thing to mourn about Seung-gil’s death was that it was preventable,” replies Yuuri.

“No one, much less you, could’ve predicted what Ms Crispino did,” counters Dr Altin.

“No, that’s not —” Yuuri cuts off, sighing. “If someone had been in the room — if someone had interrupted her earlier — there were many other ways that it could’ve not happened. All of them were feasible. And I guess it frustrates me that we couldn’t save his life, because we had it right there. We don’t know where the unsub’s holding the other victims, so we can’t do anything for them. But for Seung-gil, we could’ve done everything.”

“Yet you mourn them more.”

“Because it was already a miracle that he had returned.” Yuuri can feel the tears in his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall; instead, he tries to swallow down the growing lump in his throat. “Everything was going so well — too well, maybe. Perhaps I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, and when it did, I wasn’t surprised.”

Without saying anything, Dr Altin grabs the tissue box from the table next to his armchair and hands it over. Yuuri takes it, putting it on his lap. His phone pings again, but he ignores it.

“So, Seung-gil’s death was expected, but not the others. And that’s why you mourn them more?”

“No!” Yuuri sighs. “It’s like… It’s like losing a relative to a car crash, and another to terminal illness. One’s an inevitability, so you have time to prepare for the loss. The other just sort of hits you out of nowhere, a punch when you least expect it.”

Dr Altin hums. “I see what you mean,” he says. “Though I would think that Seung-gil’s presence in the lives of your friends would’ve made his death more personal?”

“Not really,” admits Yuuri. “They were already mourning him. Adding a semblance of my own grief to it felt like it’d just do a disservice to who he was.” He laughs a little. “I bet if I had cried at his funeral, he’d have sat up in his coffin and demanded what I was doing there when I had someone else to catch.”

“So, in the end, how do you feel?” wonders Dr Altin.

“Hope,” replies Yuuri, as his smile grows deliberately more pointed. “Everyone makes this unsub out to be some sort of genius, a great chessmaster dropping bodies like pawns. Even my mentor said he was in control. But Seung-gil shows that he’s not. There are cracks in his defenses, the biggest one being me himself.”

He grits his teeth, clenches his hands tighter against the tissue box.

“And I’m going to exploit them.”

* * *

_October 21, 2017  
Apartment 56B Pierce Street, Rosslyn_

_I watched the funeral news :( My deepest sympathies to you. Let me know if you’re okay <3_

_Hello Yuuri! I had some cake from the milk bar today!_

_Good night Yuuri!_

_Yuuri are you out of town? :( I didn’t see you on the news with your team today, are you okay?_

_Yuuri I know you’re reading these messages :( did I do something wrong? :( :( :( :((((((_

_How have you been? :) He misses you as much as I do_

_Good morning Yuuri! Did you sleep well? :) Makka and I both slept wonderfully!_

_I dreamed we were on a date last night :) and then I woke up :(_

_Yuuri, have you been eating well? I’m having olive tapenade tonight!_

_Did I do something wrong? :( Please tell me what it is so I can make it up to you :(_

_I’m starting to wonder if something happened to you? They changed that serial killer’s name to ‘Katsuki Killer’ so I’m really concerned now </3 Please let me know if you’re okay <3_

_Please let me know if you’re okay_. Yuuri’s thumb hovers over the keyboard, hesitant. It’s been nearly a month since he left New York, and he’s still been unable to bring himself to respond to Viktor’s texts.

Viktor had been such a bright part of his life back in New York, a ray of light against the drudgery and the heartbreak that working this case has been, but now that Yuuri’s at his lowest, he doesn’t know if he’s worthy of basking in that light anymore. Viktor had been out of his league even when he was actively on the case, but now?

Now it’s like reaching for a distant star with just his hands, and Yuuri hates how small that makes him feel. With each message that rolls in, Yuuri chafes harder and harder at his medical leave, wanting more than anything to feel strong enough to contact Viktor once more.

 _I’m fine_ , he types, but then he deletes it. _I’m okay._

_I’m just taking some time off the case._

_I miss you too._

_I want to see you again._

_I love —_

But he deletes every single one of them, and throws his phone across his room in frustration. It lands somewhere in the pile of clothes he’d accumulated on the armchair, a stack of laundry that he hadn’t had the energy to fold and put away.

His laptop suddenly decides to blare some loud, peppy rock song. Restless, Yuuri slams it shut and storms into the kitchen, casting about the cabinets for something to eat. Everything in the flat seems smothered beneath a fine layer of dust, which he hadn’t bothered to clean since he got back. Phichit’s absence makes it too easy for him to neglect the duties of daily life, and though he knows he should do better, it’s been alarmingly difficult to find the energy to care.

He grabs the recently-opened bag of tortilla chips from the cabinet alongside a jar of queso, and flops down on the couch to turn on the TV. Almost immediately he is accosted by Phichit’s blinding grin as he announces the successful closing of some sort of organised crime case.

“ _We’ve successfully managed to capture the people responsible for trafficking military-grade assault weapons to organised crime elements operating in the tri-state area_ ,” Phichit is saying, with that pleasant tone that they’ve all been trained to use for the press. Next to him — and standing suspiciously closer than usual — Christophe scans the crowd, beaming prettily for the cameras.

“ _But what about the Katsuki Killer case?_ ” one of the reporters asks.

Phichit ignores them. _“We would like to thank the NYPD for assisting us in taking down this ring.”_

“ _Where is Agent Katsuki, Agent Chulanont?_ ” the reporter demands.

Phichit ignores them harder. _“Now we are turning our attentions towards other gang-related activities, and our sincerest hope is that we will continue to keep the public safe.”_

“ _Has Agent Katsuki been kidnapped by the Katsuki Killer? Is_ that _the reason for the name change?_ ”

Surprisingly, it’s Christophe who snaps at that. “ _Let me clarify a couple things, Ms —_ ”

“ _Lounds —_ ”

“ _Lounds_.” Christophe’s grin is jarring on his usually jovial face. “ _The press, not the FBI, are the ones who gave that murderer a catchy nickname. Furthermore, Agent Katsuki has been called away due to family matters, and thus, his whereabouts are frankly,_ none _of your business._ ”

The sheer amount of ‘fuck you’ in Christophe’s voice warms Yuuri’s heart. Leaning back against his couch cushions, he pops a chip into his mouth, just as a notification chimes from his bedroom.

Yuuri ignores it in favour of changing the TV over to Netflix, searching for the next episode of _Law and Order_.

* * *

_November 9, 2017  
Dr Altin’s Office, Baltimore_

The sky’s just starting to darken from a cloudy afternoon into a hazy sunset when Yuuri, with shaking hands, rings the bell to Dr Altin’s office.

The psychiatrist lives above his practice, and so he comes to the door with an apron over his carefully-curated dark suit. Yuuri deliberately keeps his gaze averted from the obnoxious ‘Bad Boy’ printed on the apron above the cheerful cartoon of a bear riding a motorcycle, and waves his phone in Dr Altin’s face.

“There’s been another body,” he says, and wordlessly Dr Altin steps aside to let him in.

“I’ve just finished wrapping some lamb dumplings, want some?” he asks as he closes the door. Yuuri looks at the the empty waiting room, and the door to the darkened office just behind, and shrugs.

“If it’s not terribly unprofessional of you,” he says, doffing his coat and putting it on a nearby rack. Dr Altin shrugs, gesturing towards the tantalising light suffusing the oaken staircase leading to the apartment upstairs.

“If we’re going to be unprofessional, you might as well call me Otabek,” he say drily. Yuuri laughs as he leads the way up the stairs, following the scent of cooked lamb all the way to the kitchen.

Moments later, he finds himself swirling around a glass of Bordeaux as Dr Altin fries the platter of lamb dumplings that he had assembled on a platter. “It’s convenient that you decided to show up, Yuuri,” continues Dr Altin. “I was starting to fear I might have made too many dumplings, and, well. The last time I offered some to my receptionist, she proposed to me on the spot. And I’d like to avoid that again.”

“They’re that good, huh?” wonders Yuuri.

“They’re my grandmother’s recipe,” replies Dr Altin. “My father often jokes that if I didn’t prepare them correctly, her ghost would come back to haunt me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Yuuri replies. Dr Altin raises an eyebrow, just before sliding one of the recently-finished dumplings towards him on a small plate, alongside a set of chopsticks.

Yuuri takes a bite, and only realises that he’d said “Fuck me” long after the rest was gone, and Dr Altin had almost choked on his own wine.

“Now, _that_ would be unprofessional,” he declares.

“I’m so sorry,” replies Yuuri, his cheeks flushing furiously.

“Don’t worry,” says Dr Altin. “One of the mothers whose daughter is my patient also said something along those lines when I offered her some.” His voice is partly amused, mostly exasperated. “I’m fairly used to those words being uttered in reaction to my food by now.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you think that’s a sign to open up a restaurant?” he wonders.

Dr Altin snorts. “I wouldn’t be able to handle all the marriage proposals,” he deadpans.

At that, Yuuri helplessly breaks into laughter. Dr Altin cracks a smile at that, before sliding a bigger platter of dumplings across the kitchen island at him. “Rice?” he asks, gesturing to the pressure cooker which had just beeped. Yuuri nods, and Dr Altin scoops him a small bowl of rice as well before removing his apron and washing his hands.

Dinner passes in a slow, comfortable silence, Yuuri feeling lighter than he had in weeks. “You really are good at your job,” he remarks after most of the dumplings are gone. Dr Altin raises an eyebrow.

“I’d hope so,” he replies. “I wouldn’t get paid otherwise.”

Yuuri laughs at that. “Do you usually invite clients up to your kitchen?” he asks.

“No, never.” Dr Altin takes a sip of his wine. “You’re a bit of a special case, considering your circumstances.”

Yuuri arches an eyebrow. “I have a boyfriend,” he points out, though more as a joke than anything else.

Dr Altin snorts again. “I meant that you have a serial killer trying to contact you in the form of corpses at any time of day and night, so I was prepared for you contacting me outside of my regular hours. But yes, you have a boyfriend.” He pauses. “Wait. You didn’t think to bring up your boyfriend in previous sessions.”

“I didn’t think that was relevant,” Yuuri says.

Dr Altin groans, rubbing at his temples. “Any significant relationship that may affect your mental health is, in fact, relevant,” he points out drily. “So, why don’t we talk about your boyfriend?”

“I came here to talk to you about a corpse,” Yuuri states bluntly.

“Right,” says Dr Altin, looking slightly chastened. “Let me finish eating.”

Yuuri frowns. “You think that’s a good idea?”

“I’d prefer to lose my desire to eat _after_ I’ve eaten, rather than before.” Dr Altin crosses his legs, grabbing at another dumpling with his chopsticks. Yuuri can’t seriously argue with that, so he takes another for himself and sighs.

After the platter is empty and Yuuri is seriously contemplating taking a leaf out of the receptionist’s book and dropping to one knee, Dr Altin offers him a glass of water and clears the plates.

“I’ll be honest,” he begins, “had this been any other client of mine, I would have met them in my office. But you caught me in the middle of cooking, and I trust that we won’t have any stalker issues afterwards.”

“Stalker issues?” echoes Yuuri.

Dr Altin waves an airy hand. “Patient confidentiality,” he says. “None of your concern.”

“If you say so,” says Yuuri, now sipping pensively at his water. Dr Altin drains his wineglass, and stands up.

“Let’s take this to my living room,” he offers, and Yuuri gladly follows, taking a seat in the armchair there like in their sessions. Dr Altin takes the other one, raising an eyebrow for him to begin, so Yuuri pulls out his phone and opens up the email from Phichit.

He looks down, and regrets it immediately.

The body in the pictures is upside-down, hanging from a tree branch some park. He’s dressed simply in a polo and slacks, the fine clothes offsetting his eyeless gaze and the wrists nailed to his chest. Both hands are curled closed over something, and every finger has been completely stripped of skin and muscle, leaving only bone behind.

Scrolling past the first picture, he registers that the corpse is not completely lacking his eyes at all, both of them having been placed in the corpse’s palms. Once again, Yuuri finds himself admiring the sheer amount of effort that the unsub had gone through for this posing — the strength to manipulate a fresh corpse this way points to someone with either military training or the build of an athlete.

He throws the feeling out the window with another flick of his thumb, and bile crawls up his throat instead at the corpse’s open mouth, the camera close enough to note a lack of tongue.

 _The COD was ketamine overdose_ , the email details, _all mutilations postmortem._

“Mr Katsuki?” Dr Altin prompts, and Yuuri jerks up, keenly aware of his own tongue in his mouth.

Abruptly, he feels utterly grateful that he’d already eaten. Yuuri wordlessly passes the phone to Dr Altin, who frowns deeply upon first glance. “Hm,” he remarks. “It’s less bloody than the last one.”

“The unsub likes to change it up,” Yuuri replies. “It’s like a never-ending chain of unpleasant surprises.”

Dr Altin hands the phone back. “I commend your mental fortitude for stomaching this on the regular,” he declares. “There’s a reason why I heal _minds_ , not bodies.”

“You still seem to be taking it remarkably well,” Yuuri remarks, smiling a little. “The pattern we’ve discovered is that the unsub mutilates what he believes to be deficiencies in the victims, using me as the standard.”

“Yes, the iron bed that you mentioned during our first session,” agrees Dr Altin, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. “So. Why fingers?”

“I dunno,” says Yuuri. “I think I could count on one hand the number of people I’ve touched recently, and none of them are currently in New York.”

“Does physical contact count?” wonders Dr Altin. “I mean —” and here he shudders openly, “the eyes. Have you been in the news lately?”

“Not in person,” replies Yuuri, “but a journalist asked about me during an FBI press conference.”

“Perhaps the unsub is upset that you’re no longer on the case,” Dr Altin remarks. “After all, your absence means he can no longer see you, speak to you, or touch you.”

“That’s a very astute observation, Dr Altin,” Yuuri replies, smiling mirthlessly. “Are _you_ secretly the unsub?”

“I could not possibly have done all of that in New York and returned in time to make dumplings,” states Dr Altin. “It’d be a waste of gas money, considering the geography. I’d sooner be the Chesapeake Ripper; I think I have the cooking skills to qualify.”

“No, Hannibal Lecter’s in New York,” Yuuri says. “He runs a restaurant called the Silent Lamb.”

Dr Altin blinks. “I couldn’t tell if that was a joke,” he admits.

“I wish it was.” Yuuri shrugs. “The unsub took Seung-gil on his last date there.”

Dr Altin blinks again. “Are you sure _Hannibal Lecter_ isn’t your unsub?” he jokes.

Yuuri snorts. “Look,” he replies drily, ”the Couture Cutter didn’t earn his name by wearing paisley and plaid at the same time.”

Dr Altin raises an eyebrow. “Now that _has_ to be a joke.”

“As much of a joke as your dumplings,” declares Yuuri, and Dr Altin looks offended for all of three seconds before realisation dawns on him.

“How was the food?” he asks, curiosity evident in his tone. Yuuri shrugs.

“Wouldn’t know; we were just there to interrogate the staff.”

Dr Altin opens his mouth to say something else, before shaking his head and folding his hands, his professional mask slipping back into place. “So, Mr Katsuki, how does this latest body make you feel?”

Yuuri sighs. “I… well. You’ve said several times before that I’m not to blame for these murders,” he says. “And this newest body just sort of made that click. He’s going to keep killing even when I’m not around. He’s trying to get my attention, making these elaborate, pointed statements with the mutilations. But none of that is dependent on my presence.”

“And what sort of statement do you think he’s saying with this one?”

“He can’t see me, he can’t talk to me, he can’t touch me,” muses Yuuri. “He’s been isolated from me.”

Dr Altin frowns. “Is he happy that you’re off the case?”

“No,” says Yuuri immediately. “I think he’s …lonely.”

* * *

_November 29, 2017  
_ _Apartment 56B Pierce Street, Rosslyn, Virginia_

“ _Yuuri-kun! We missed you!_ ”

Yuuri has had an email from Phichit burning a hole in his inbox since earlier in the morning, but he hasn’t had the heart to call Dr Altin just yet, choosing instead to respond to his sister Mari’s request for a video call instead.

“I missed you too,” he says, hoping against hope that the webcam doesn’t pick up on exactly how slobbish he’s been living lately. The only clothes he’s actually bothered to wear these days are his old FBI Academy sweats. Mari, of course, notices.

“ _Is that… a half-empty jar of queso on the bed_?”

“No,” lies Yuuri, shifting to obscure the jar from view.

“ _You might be able to lie to serial killers, but you’re shit at lying to me_ ,” Mari declares. “ _Please tell me you haven’t been eating queso straight from the jar_.”

Yuuri surreptitiously wipes his fingers on a dirty sock under the bed. “I haven’t been eating queso straight from the jar,” he repeats mechanically.

Mari rolls her eyes. “ _I buy that about as much as I buy you having a boyfriend_ ,” she says.

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Actually, now that you mention that,” he begins, and Mari, who had just taken a sip of water, promptly sprays it out of her mouth.

“ _No_ _way_ ,” she splutters.

“Do I look like I’m lying right _now_?”

Mari gapes at him. “ _Fuck you, now I owe Mom ten bucks_.”

“You took _bets_ on me?” demands Yuuri, drawing his knees up to his chin and glowering at her.

“ _There’s only so much we can speculate about your fancy new life in the FBI_ ,” retorts Mari. “ _Especially since you only visit once every two years and say everything is classified when we ask_!”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says, immediately contrite. “I’m just so busy, and —”

“ _You’ve seen the news, right_?” interrupts Mari suddenly, all business and solemnity. Yuuri blinks at her.

“No? I’ve been avoiding the news lately; doctor’s orders.”

“ _What_?”

“I’m on medical leave.”

Mari boggles at him. “ _See! That’s the kind of thing we’d have expected you to tell us if you weren’t so_ busy,” she snaps, making air quotes around the word ‘busy’. “ _Are you okay? Do you need to come home_?”

Yuuri flinches. “I can’t,” he says, remembering what he’d told Dr Altin.

“ _Why not_?” Mari’s expression shifts into one of concern. “ _Are you in hiding? Witness Protection? Wait, you can’t be in Witness Protection; you wouldn’t be allowed to contact us if you were, right?_ ”

“No, I’m not in WitSec,” Yuuri says, “but I might as well be, considering that there’s a killer obsessed with me.”

“What?” Mari nearly does another spittake. “ _Listen, Yuuri,_ that’s _the kind of thing I’d have expected to hear from you directly, as opposed to on the news_.”

“On the news,” echoes Yuuri.

“Duh _, on the news_!” Mari rolls her eyes. “ _Some FBI’s Most Wanted criminal just resurfaced in connection with some ‘Katsuki Killer’. Like, you know, as a dead body_.”

“Like I said, I don’t want to talk about the case with people who aren’t my therapist, so —”

“ _You’re not at all concerned about that_?” demands Mari.

“I’m _very_ concerned, thanks,” Yuuri intones drily. “I got so concerned I ended up on medical leave!”

Mari immediately looks contrite about that. “Well,” she says. “ _That’s not exactly how I imagined your birthday to turn out_ ,” she admits.

Yuuri blinks, and sure enough, the date on his phone informs him that it is indeed the twenty-ninth. He feels the queso coming back to haunt him. “Right,” he says, quietly. “It’s my birthday.”

Mari mutters something in Japanese that Yuuri is certain is a swear word of some sort. “ _You_ forgot _it was your birthday_ ,” she says flatly.

“Yeah, I’ve, uh, forgotten a lot of things.”

“ _Like eating_?”

“I eat!”

“ _Anything_ other _than queso and instant ramen? God, it’s like you’re in college again_.”

“I need _comfort_ , Mari, and I can’t have katsudon, so I have to make do.”

“ _Is there no halfway-decent Japanese restaurant in Washington D.C.?_ ”

“Mari, the Chinatown here takes up exactly one block. What do you think.”

“ _Fair_ ,” she concedes. “ _Maybe you should just come home? We’ll feed you. And Vicchan can protect you from your creepy serial killer. She misses you, you know_.”

Yuuri sighs. “Can I see her?” he asks, finally voicing the question he’d been dying to ask since he accepted the video call from her. Mari whistles, and moments later there’s the scampering of nails against hardwood, and a little brown head pokes into the bottom of the screen.

Mari scoops up his toy poodle, holding her to the camera so she can nose at it eagerly. Yuuri feels a lump rise in his throat at the image of her; Vicchan has gotten a little larger since he last saw her, but given her toy size that’s probably the biggest she’ll get. She yaps happily at seeing him, and he reaches out before realising he can’t touch her through the screen, sighing dejectly and settling back against his mattress.

“How are Mom and Dad?” he asks, riveted by Vicchan licking at Mari’s fingers. “And Yu-Topia?”

“ _Business is good_ ,” says Mari, shrugging. “ _Mom makes a point to tell everyone who orders the katsudon that you use it to interrogate bad guys like in her favourite J-dramas_.”

“She’s not telling everyone I’m in the FBI, right?”

“ _Of course not. She just says you’re in law enforcement_.”

Yuuri sighs. “Still a little too close for comfort, but whatever makes her happy, I guess,” he concedes. “What about Dad?”

“ _His back has been bothering him, but otherwise he’s fine._ ” Mari shrugs. “ _Toyomura-san comes by and helps out sometimes, when his back’s really giving him trouble. We’re all very concerned about you, especially when the news got out about that Katsuki Killer. It was pretty scary, since the first thing we thought was that, you know_ —”

“Yeah,” interrupts Yuuri. “If only it was just that.”

“ _What are you saying_?” demands Mari, her eyes narrowing. “ _You’d rather be dead_?”

His therapy sessions with Dr Altin echo in his head. “No,” he says. “It’s just… all of the bodies that have turned up bear some resemblance to me, so sometimes it feels like they died _because_ of me. We haven’t told the public about that yet, so don’t tell anyone.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” she says, miming zipping up her lips with a small smile. “ _That’s… I can’t even begin to imagine how that’d feel_.”

“That’s why I’m on medical leave,” says Yuuri, shrugging. “Come to think of it, I really should call my therapist, if what you’re saying about the news is true.”

Mari nods. “ _Yeah_ ,” she sighs. “ _You should take care of yourself, kid. Like… put on human clothes. And stop eating queso all the time._ ”

“Hai, hai, oneechan,” intones Yuuri drily. Mari snickers at that, before making Vicchan wave him goodbye. Yuuri waves back, before Mari disconnects the call.

With another sigh, Yuuri picks up the phone, still ignoring the email from Phichit. “Dr Altin?” he asks.

“ _I was wondering when you’d call_ ,” is the response.

* * *

_November 29, 2017  
_ _Dr Altin’s Office, Baltimore_

“Lamb dumpling?” asks Dr Altin as soon as Yuuri steps into the office.

Yuuri stares at the platter on the coffee table, emanating the delicious smell of lamb. “Is that why the receptionist gave me the stink eye when I came in?”

“I didn’t let her have any,” replies Dr Altin. “I didn’t want her to go the way of her predecessors.”

“Predecessors?” demands Yuuri as he takes one of the dumplings.

“It’s a _very_ difficult lesson, but I’ve learned it,” declares Dr Altin. “One man tried to get his husband to proposition me into a threesome.”

“So am I the only person you trust _not_ to proposition you after eating your food?” wonders Yuuri.

“Your psychological profile paints you as someone who would not deviate from a strong moral code, which happens to include not consciously entering ethically dubious relationships,” replies Dr Altin.

“That’s… comforting, to some degree,” mutters Yuuri as he pops the dumpling into his mouth. It is every bit as heavenly as the last set he’d had.

“Yes,” agrees Dr Altin. “And clearly, your exclamation last time was a fluke.”

“Like you said, strong moral code,” replies Yuuri, leaning back in his chair and taking out his phone. He pulls up the email from Phichit, and sighs. “So, the unsub sent me a birthday present.”

“Ah, yes,” says Dr Altin. “I remember seeing it on the news this morning, unfortunately.”

Yuuri laughs mirthlessly and props his chin on one hand as he scrolls with the other, immediately cringing upon the first picture loading.

The body sits upon a pile of garbage like a deposed king on a ruined throne, headless and naked. The stump of his neck is tilted back and his legs are spread, arms loosely holding onto a gold gift-wrapped box with a silver bow tied neatly around it.

 _Found this morning by construction workers at Fresh Kills State Park on Staten Island_ , the text under the first photo says. Yuuri vaguely remembers reading some articles about refurbishing plans for that park, which had previously been a landfill. At the time, he had thought that the name would make for an ironic body dump site. Clearly the unsub had thought the same.

The fact that the park had been a landfill also strikes a chord, but that note soon fades away at the next set of pictures. Each limb is zoomed in on — the inside of the forearms, the front of the calves, even the back of the neck — to show a set of characters that makes his heart plummet somewhere six feet under, and turns even the taste of the lamb dumpling into little more than ash.

お誕生日おめでとう！The message is written perfectly vertically, in something that looks suspiciously like Sharpie.

 _Otanjoubi omedetou —_ “Happy birthday” in Japanese.

There’s no clothes on this corpse, not a single thread other than the ones of the bow on the box. With trepidation he continues scrolling, nearly dropping the phone at the image of the opening of the gift-wrapped box.

A very familiar face stares back at the camera, brown eyes bulging out in death and a penis protruding crudely from its mouth. The box itself is lined with a multitude of labelled discs in jewel cases, doubtless to protect them from the blood draining out of the head. The hair is surprisingly short, as if the unsub had hacked at it with a pair of scissors, but what strikes Yuuri the most is the next picture of the genitalia removed from the mouth and put on the tray.

“Happy birthday, Yuuri! ♡” reads the surgical thread carefully _stitched onto the victim’s penis._

Yuuri is certain, based on the coagulating blood, that _that_ particular bit was done antemortem.

Dr Altin clears his throat, drawing Yuuri’s attention. He offers the plate of dumplings to Yuuri again, but Yuuri can only refuse by shaking his head mutely. “That bad?” asks Dr Altin, setting the plate aside to lean forward instead.

Yuuri presses his lips together and proffers his phone.

Dr Altin takes one look and swallows audibly, crossing his legs. “This is… a birthday gift?” he wonders.

Yuuri sets his phone face-down and nods, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I knew this man,” he says tonelessly. “Well, if you count ‘being infamous’ as ‘knowing’, but…” he shrugs.

“The news says that he was on the FBI’s Most Wanted List,” Dr Altin prompts. “Who was he?”

“Shou Kobayashi,” Yuuri says immediately, recalling the case that Yuuko and Takeshi had been working to crack. “He’s the head of a child pornography ring. He suddenly suspended operations in October, though, and the Crimes Against Children division have been scrambling to find him ever since.”

Dr Altin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Your unsub gave you his dead body as a _birthday gift_ ,” he states, equally tonelessly.

“Are you going to ask how this makes me feel?” Yuuri asks drily.

Dr Altin tilts his head, as if to say ‘Go on.’

Yuuri shakes his head and huffs, fiddling with his glasses. “This is the most disdain I’ve seen from the unsub towards one of his victims,” he begins. “For one, Kobayashi’s posed on a _landfill_ mound. The unsub thinks he’s even more trash than the last bodies. Not to mention the beheading and the castration — I suspect that the words were stitched on antemortem and _then_ he was castrated. The beheading was what killed him.”

Dr Altin shifts in his seat, leaning on one arm. “This does sound incredibly brutal,” he agrees blandly. “He wanted to impress you or something?”

“Well, why else do you give someone a birthday gift?” Yuuri says wryly.

“You don’t feel guilty for this man’s death, then?” Dr Altin asks.

Yuuri can do nothing but shrug, not making eye contact. “Honestly… I’m glad that he’s dead,” he admits. “I have friends in the Crimes Against Children division, and I’ve seen what they’ve uncovered about him — I would bet money that those discs are more evidence. One more bad guy off the streets.” He thins his lips, pressing them together. “But he should have been punished by the arm of justice, not by an equally depraved vigilante serial killer shopping for a birthday present,” Yuuri mutters. “Well, maybe not _equally_ depraved — at least the unsub doesn’t, like, kidnap children and try to groom them to become me.”

Dr Altin’s expression twists into a grimace. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know any further details of this Kobayashi person,” he says. “So…” he prompts Yuuri to continue.

Yuuri shrugs helplessly. “Using Kobayashi as a medium to wish me a happy birthday is… repulsive,” he admits, “but other than that, this was not an innocent man, and I think I’d probably be freaking out a lot more if I had looked at this alone instead of with you.”

“You seem to be accepting these recent deaths more easily than the others,” Dr Altin observes.

Yuuri blinks owlishly, making eye contact with Dr Altin. “Really?” he asks.

Dr Altin nods.

“I… ” Yuuri cringes. “I — I’m not —”

“It’s a good thing, Mr Katsuki,” Dr Altin cuts in. “One reason why you were here in the first place is because you kept on shouldering guilt for these deaths despite not being the murderer, remember? The fact that you’re separating their deaths, caused by the unsub, from your actions is an improvement,” he insists. “The unsub is the _only one_ to blame.”

Yuuri straightens subconsciously. “I think that from where I am now, on medical leave and talking about these with you, I’m able to separate myself from the victims more easily,” he murmurs. “Ever since the beginning, I’ve been seeing myself in these bodies — just like the unsub.”

“But no longer?” Dr Alin asks.

“They’re them, and I’m me,” Yuuri says. “Shouldering guilt for their deaths makes me seem almost arrogant. Some of them may have held their deaths against me, if they ever knew, but others like Seung-gil,” he smiles sadly at his memory of him, “would insist that I was not the one who drugged them with ketamine.”

Dr Altin smiles too, almost proud. “That is a much better mindset than you had in the first session,” he declares. “Despite the macabre contents that the unsub managed to get onto national news, I think what you should focus on today — your birthday — is that you are a different man than you were two months ago. A healthier man.”

Yuuri smiles gratefully, a genuinely sincere one that he feels out of practice using. “Thank you, Dr Altin.”

“Would you say that we are done for today, then?” he asks, unfolding from his chair.

Yuuri blinks and checks the window, surprise flaring at the sunset painting the sky glorious colors that he can’t help but pause and stare. “Yes,” he says, voice distant to his own ears. God, when was the last time he’d been able to do something as simple as appreciate a sunset? Too long.

“Yuuri,” Dr Altin’s voice startles him from his reverie, suddenly farther than it had been earlier. Yuuri jerks around in surprise to see him standing nearby, hand resting on his desk. “I… ah, would you like a better birthday gift than the one you already received today?” he asks, sounding somewhat strangely nervous.

The usage of his first name confuses Yuuri for a moment. “I… I’m pretty sure a kindergartener’s mudpie would be a better gift,” he says, a trace of humour in his voice, feeling lighter than he has in months, despite the day’s events.

“Well, I should hope that a homemade cake would be even better than a kindergartener’s mudpie,” Dr Altin says drily.

“… _Cake_?” Yuuri can only echo in surprise.

Dr Altin nods, and lifts up a box from behind his desk. It’s a neutral shade of beige, bland and completely different from the gift box from the pictures. “I hope you like red velvet,” he says.

Yuuri openly gapes. “I — yes — what —?”

Dr Altin shrugs, utterly unprofessional now. “I thought that, well, _that_ shouldn’t be the only present you received today,” he confesses. “And I know you appreciate my cooking.”

Something blooms in Yuuri’s chest, like he’d been cold ever since Seung-gil’s death and he’s only just started warming himself in front of a fireplace now. “I… thank you,” he says, the words somehow completely inadequate for how pleasantly surprised he is right now. “I love red velvet.”

Dr Altin — no, Otabek — smiles at him, rummaging around his desk drawers and coming up with a small knife, two plates, and two forks. “I hope you enjoy,” he says, opening the box and cutting the cake to serve onto the plates.

“It’s made by you, of course I’ll enjoy it.” Yuuri grins as he accepts one. As he momentarily blanks out in bliss at the light taste of almond cake and cream cheese icing mixing together delightfully in his mouth, something suddenly occurs to him. “Wait.”

“Hm?” Otabek raises an eyebrow.

Yuuri jerks his head towards the entrance to the office. “No wonder your receptionist was giving me those dirty looks!” he exclaims.

Otabek’s other eyebrow raises, and he breaks out into a small laugh. “Maybe,” he grins. “Just maybe.”

“Worth it,” Yuuri declares. “This is an absolutely better birthday gift in every way possible.”

“Happy birthday, Yuuri Katsuki,” Otabek replies.

And despite how this day had begun, strangely enough, it _is_ a happy birthday.

* * *

_December 23, 2017  
_ _Apartment 56B Pierce Street, Rosslyn_

Within a week of his birthday, Yuuri throws out the last of his queso and finally clears out his laundry pile. He responds to the birthday messages from Yuuko and Takeshi, as well as Phichit and Christophe. To his surprise, even Professor Graham has sent him something. It’s one of those sort of cheesy animated e-cards with several dancing dogs in it, but Yuuri smiles at it nonetheless.

The weeks after find him taking long walks around the community, or driving down to D.C. to stroll through parks far away from any prying Bureau eyes. He visits a couple dog parks, watches the pups at play, talks to their owners with a certain sense of longing for Vicchan.

He spends late evenings drinking water instead of alcohol, and eating leftover birthday cake instead of queso.

Sometime mid-December, another body appears, but this time he deletes the email. Upon hearing this at their regular session, Otabek raises an eyebrow, asking him why.

“If I am to bring justice to these victims, then I must return to the case as quickly as possible, and to do that, I have to take my medical leave seriously.” Yuuri folds his hands in his lap, feeling calm for the first time in far too many months. “I can’t obsess over each body one by one like the unsub wants me to do. That’s giving him the attention he craves.”

Otabek smiles. “You’ve definitely been making leaps and strides in your recovery. You should be proud of your progress.” He pauses, letting the smile fully reach his eyes. “I know I am.”

Yuuri’s ears might have turned a little red at that, but that’s no one’s business but his own.

The days after that, he returns to Quantico, but this time he restricts himself to the training fields, gym, and firing range, slowly bringing himself back up to peak physical shape. He’d had above average marksmanship skills during the Academy, but in the field he’s rarely had to fire his gun. Unlike many much more trigger-happy police officers, he’s an ardent believer in talk first, shoot only at last resort.

But if he were to come against the Katsuki Killer, one thing is certain: he would not hesitate to put a bullet in that depraved man’s head.

“I see you’ve been getting back in shape,” Otabek notes at their next session, half of his face deliberately obscured by his notebook. Yuuri stretches out a kink in his spine and smiles brightly, earning him a series of furious scribbles across the table from his therapist.

“I’d been meaning to for a while,” he admits. “I tend to put on weight easily, and, well, my eating habits aren’t exactly the best when I’m emotionally low. I think I’ve gotten control over my mental state, but I think, if I were to meet the unsub again, I’d also like to be in a better physical state as well.”

Otabek coughs. “Well, physical exercise is conducive to better mental health, so… I think this is something I ought to approve of as your therapist.”

Yuuri nods. “Well, unfortunately, because of all the exercise I’ve been getting, I…” His entire face turns red as he admits, “really miss my boyfriend a lot.”

Otabek raises an eyebrow. “Miss him?” he echoes.

“Well, we… never really got that far when we started dating,” Yuuri replies sheepishly. “I was so preoccupied by the case, and he was also so busy doing whatever he does, so… we never really got to a point where we…” he trails off. “I’m sorry, that’s probably too much information.”

“An increase in libido is an expected side effect of getting back in shape,” Otabek points out. “And Yuuri, you forget — I’m paid to listen to you divulge too much information.”

Yuuri freezes at that. “Right,” he says, sheepishly rubbing at his nape. “I just — sometimes it’s easy to forget that you’re supposed to be my therapist? You’ve been more like a friend.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, that’s probably really unethical, isn’t it?”

“Professionally, yes,” replies Dr Altin smoothly. He slowly lowers his notebook onto his lap, crossing his legs. “Personally, as long as you are cognisant of our boundaries, I see no reason why we should not think kindly of each other. You’ve been making leaps and bounds in your recovery, without relying on me as a crutch or by my prompting. This is a testament to your own strength of will, Yuuri.”

Yuuri rubs nervously at his knees, feeling his cheeks heat up for no reason. “I… er, thanks. I’m glad you think so.” He pauses, frowning as a realisation suddenly strikes him. “But what about the food you’ve made me? That’s probably crossing some ethical boundary, I imagine.”

“I did those in my capacity as a human being,” replies Dr Altin, “who saw a fellow human being struggling. Food is known across cultures to provide comfort to those who are in need of it.”

Yuuri can’t help but notice the sudden straightness in Dr Altin’s posture, the hesitancy with which he phrases his words. Part of him suddenly twists in a way that he hadn’t thought possible before.

“Dr Altin?” he manages.

“Yes, Mr Katsuki?”

“Are you going to refer me to another therapist? Once I’m… back on the job?”

Dr Altin freezes again, fiddling with his pen cap. Yuuri watches, tries to parse out the lines of his movement, the profile in his downcast expression. There’s something about him that seems… bereft, somehow. Like a man who can see the end of the tunnel, but has no desire to run towards it.

It comes as no surprise to him minutes later, then, when Dr Altin shakes his head and smiles, looking back up at him. “No,” he says kindly. “I was actually thinking that once I declared you fit to return, you would be able to discontinue therapy altogether.”

Yuuri blinks. “You think I could recover fully?” he asks.

Dr Altin glances at his notes. “While you do present with some generalised anxiety disorders, it is clear that you have lived with that all of your life and thus have the requisite coping mechanisms for that. I was only called in to ensure your recovery from a particularly stressful and potentially traumatic experience. Your mental constitution is much stronger than what you give it credit for. Of course, you may choose to continue your therapy once you are back in New York, but in that case, I would still have to refer you to my colleagues up north.”

Yuuri swallows. Suddenly, the thought of returning to work has slightly less appeal than before. “We couldn’t continue these sessions over video call?” he wonders.

A pause. Dr Altin fiddles harder with his pen. “I’m afraid not, Mr Katsuki,” he says. “I prefer to interact with my clients in person.” Strangely enough, his tone seems genuinely apologetic. “But I haven’t cleared you for duty yet, so, let’s focus in the meantime on your present circumstances.” He claps his hands lightly. “Tell me more about your boyfriend.”

The rest of the session passes uneventfully, though Yuuri can’t seem to shrug off how much colder the air in the room seems to become with each passing minute. Part of him almost regrets bringing Viktor up, though at the same time it’s strangely liberating to divulge to someone else the emotional tangles that the model seems to put him into almost unwittingly. Viktor still somehow feels like a distant star, but with each word Yuuri pulls him closer to earth once more.

By the end of it, he’s been able to regain some of the light feeling in his chest that he’d experienced all throughout the week, but most of that vanishes immediately when he steps out of Dr Altin’s office and right into the path of a strangely-familiar figure blocking the doorstep.

“Agent Katsuki,” the reporter declares, one perfectly-trimmed eyebrow arched in eager fascination, “you’re a _very_ difficult man to track down, but I’m glad to see that you haven’t become a victim to the killer that shares your name.”

“We don’t share a name,” Yuuri says, almost on reflex. “Who are you?”

“Freddie Lounds, _New York Post_ ,” she says. “Could I have a minute of your time?”

Yuuri’s hackles rise almost immediately. “No,” he says, trying to brush past her, but she is remarkably persistent in blocking his path.

“Is it true you’re dating the supermodel Viktor Nikiforov?”

The question catches him off-guard. “ _What_?” he demands.

“It’s a simple enough question,” Lounds points out with a pout. “Are you or are you not dating the supermodel Viktor Nikiforov?”

“That’s none of your business,” Yuuri snaps. “How did you even _arrive_ at such a conclusion?”

“There were photos posted to Twitter of you and Viktor at various places around New York.”

Yuuri’s blood drains from his face. “Have you been _stalking_ me?” he demands.

“No, but some of Viktor’s fans have been keeping tabs on you, ever since it became apparent that someone who the FBI claimed was in California with his family was haunting dog parks in D.C.,” she replies smugly. “Is this, perhaps, a gambit by the Bureau to capture the Katsuki Killer?”

A thought, perhaps given to him by the part of him that suspiciously sounds like Professor Graham, surfaces on his tongue. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Lounds raises an eyebrow. “Careful, Agent Katsuki. With a threat like that, people might think _you_ were the Katsuki Killer.”

Yuuri’s about to retort something to that that would make any Bureau media liaison want to commit murder, but he’s fortuitously cut off by another voice. “What’s going on here?” Dr Altin demands, causing Lounds’s attention to suddenly divert to him.

“Dr Otabek Altin!” she exclaims cheerily, extending her hand. “I heard you were the number one psychiatrist in the Baltimore area. Is Agent Katsuki your patient?”

Dr Altin looks down at her hand with one eyebrow raised, before looking over at Yuuri. Some of Yuuri’s internal panic must be showing externally, because he only scrunches his expression into something that wouldn’t look out of place on the face of a baker who’d just discovered weevils in their flour, and says:

“No, we’re friends.”

“Friends,” echoes Lounds, eyes widening.

“ _Just_ friends,” emphasises Otabek. “Though I doubt you’re familiar with the concept, Ms Lounds; your reputation rather precedes you.”

Lounds gapes at him, caught between shocked and offended. Otabek turns towards Yuuri, a small smile playing at his lips. “Thank you for joining me on my lunch break, Yuuri; I look forward to discussing…”

“Good food,” Yuuri chips in.

“Yes, good food with you in the future. Same time next week?”

“Of course,” replies Yuuri. “Though — what are your plans for Christmas?”

“The only plans I have for Christmas are for my palate,” replies Otabek. “If you’re interested, I can make an extra portion.”

Lounds looks between them like a golf spectator at a tennis match. Yuuri takes advantage of her confusion to briefly shake Otabek’s hand and slip away to his car, clambering in and speeding away before the reporter can recover her wits.

It’s only a couple miles down, pulled into the parking lot of a church with his car idling for the heater, that Yuuri pulls up the search results for Viktor’s name and finds the photographs of him and Viktor splashed across the first page. At Central Park, at the Shake Shack, even at the milk bar — the speculation on Twitter has turned into a feeding frenzy. Even Minami’s blog has a brief discussion on one of the photos, which had been taken close enough and clear enough to see exactly what they had been wearing, as well as their expressions: Viktor caught mid-laugh, silver hair falling in his eyes, Yuuri reaching out to wipe a stray smudge of whipped cream from a Shake Shack milkshake from the corner of his mouth. The discussion in the comments has since then been shut down because of people hurling personal insults.

Yuuri shivers, before closing out of his browser and opening up his long-muted messaging apps. The first thing he sees is:

_I’m so sorry about the photos! Is that why you’re mad at me, Yuuri? Please talk to me so we can work this out :( I love you and can’t stand to see you hurt </3_

A lump rises in his throat, caught somewhere between guilt and longing and all these other Viktor-related emotions he’s bottled up since he first fled New York. With no one else around to see him, Yuuri slumps forward against the steering wheel of his car, and cries properly for the first time in a long while.

* * *

_December 25, 2017  
Dr Altin’s Office, Baltimore_

“I can’t believe I’m spending Christmas with my therapist,” is the first thing Yuuri says when Dr Altin opens the door for him on Christmas Day. He then has to pause and gape, because said therapist is wearing a sweater knit in intricate designs of black and gold, a black apron sporting two arrows in opposite directions respectively labelled ‘the man’ and ‘the legend’, and a Santa hat.

Yuuri’s not sure which part of that ensemble is more egregious. Dr Altin’s cheeks are more than just a little pink as he steps aside to let Yuuri in.

“I thought we were spending Christmas as friends, not as patient and therapist?” he asks with a quirked eyebrow. Yuuri sighs, fishing for his phone, and Dr Altin’s expression noticeably slips. “Ah,” he says. “Let me put on my therapist hat, then.”

“It was on the news again, I think,” says Yuuri as Dr Altin leads him into his office. “I mean, the unsub left the body in Central Park this time; it’s pretty hard to miss that.”

“A place guaranteed to give an audience,” remarks Dr Altin, tapping thoughtfully at his lips. “Doesn’t Central Park have security cameras everywhere? How has he not been caught?”

“He seems to have some knowledge of the security cameras’ blind spots and movements, so any footage we do catch of him don’t give away anything more than height and build.” replies Yuuri. “Either he has technical help, or the ‘genius murderer’ label my colleagues gave him has some credence.”

“Could be both,” Dr Altin points out. “The thing is, how _does_ he transport the bodies? Aren’t humans rather heavy?”

Yuuri shudders. “I’d rather not think about that, actually,” he says, and Dr Altin chuckles, before sending a wistful look at his ceiling and the kitchen Yuuri knows is just above their heads.

“That’s good,” he says, before reaching up and taking off his Santa hat. “Okay, show me the body.”

The words, “It’s not _a_ body,” fall out of Yuuri’s mouth unwittingly as he opens the email and starts scrolling. With every press of his thumb to the screen, he feels his shakily-rebuilt control crumbling.

For the past two months, he’s been able to look at the bodies from a distance, secure in his own physical distance from the crime scenes and capability to distance his own identity from the mangled ones of the corpses. But now, he feels that distance rapidly collapsing into nothing as he sees himself and Viktor lying at the feet of the Romeo and Juliet statue outside the Delacorte Theatre in Central Park.

In the mockery of the statue’s own embrace, two men’s limbs are tangled together, one pristine, the other mangled.

Viktor’s eyes, mouth, and nostrils have been sewn shut with black surgical thread, messy stitches that have been pulled so tight they bleed from where they pierce the flesh. From the side that’s facing upward, Yuuri can see that his ear has been cut off as well, a sawing motion that left ragged cuts in the flesh without care for finesse. The corpse’s hair is short, cut deliberately to mimic Viktor, bleached a bone-white, scalp visibly irritated from however the dye job was done. Probably with the harshest of chemicals — Yuuri suspects that it was straight bleach.

The clothes they wear casts his memory back to the pictures he pulled up in his car the other day — the ones the paparazzi had taken of them at the Shake Shack, after he and Viktor had gone to _Midsummer_ at the Park. He himself wears a pair of jeans and a button-down, wrapped lovingly in a grey cardigan, loafers on his feet. Viktor wears the same outfit he’d worn in the photos, but the clothes do not fit as well, callously shoved on and then sectioned off with the other body parts.

For a moment, Yuuri sees it in his arms. Viktor’s head, cut off from the rest of his body, his forearms chopped as well, and every single finger removed from the knuckle, plucked out as neatly as weeds from a flowerbed.

The dew stings his cheeks for a moment, and Yuuri lifts his fingers to to wipe his cheeks, only to come away with tears.

And then he’s back in the office. “Mr Katsuki?” Dr Altin calls his name in a low voice. Yuuri looks up at him.

“It’s us,” he croaks. “The unsub killed me and Viktor.”

Dr Altin straight up. “No, Mr Katsuki, you are here in Baltimore, Maryland.”

The phone falls into Yuuri’s lap. “He killed us!” Yuuri cries, voice cracking through the air like a snapping femur. “I’m completely untouched, because the unsub _loves me_ , but Viktor’s head has been removed!” He then scrambles for his phone, scrolling frantically, skimming the pictures, recreating the image on the screen in his mind’s eye. “His arms have been removed at the shoulders, and even his legs removed at the hip. Every single finger has been removed at the knuckle.” The words come faster as the picture completes itself.

“Mr Katsuki —” Dr Altin tries, but Yuuri can’t stop now, not with the intricacy and detail of the picture the unsub has displayed in the park for him.

“Hanged, drawn, and quartered,” Yuuri continues, “The punishment for treason. Betrayal.”

“The unsub believes you’ve betrayed him?” Dr Altin asks, clearly changing tacks from trying to calm Yuuri down from his furor.

Yuuri pulls up the paparazzi pictures from Twitter and and thrusts the phone towards Dr Altin’s face. “Look,” he says, “The outfits — they’re from when Viktor and I went on a date. Down to the _shoes_ I was wearing.” Before Dr Altin can react, he brings the phone back to himself. “ _I’m_ the one that committed treason, by displaying interest in Viktor,” he murmurs, “But Viktor is the one that’s been punished. All of his senses have been removed — he can’t see me, hear me, talk to me, smell me, or touch me.”

“… The unsub is furious.”

“He is,” Yuuri says, voice sounding distant to his own ears. “He’s _enraged_.”

Viktor’s fingers are in a picture separate from the bodies, at the corpses’ feet like some garish painting title plaque. Each finger is bent carefully, ten fingers to form five letters. “Rache,” Yuuri says. “Rachel? No —”

Dr Altin is silent as he pulls up Google, watching intently. Yuuri opens up Google Translate, sets it to convert from ‘detect language’ to ‘English’. He looks back up. “It’s revenge in German.”

Yuuri’s mind scrambles to when he last heard from Viktor. This morning, maybe, wishing him happy holidays? “Viktor,” he says, “Viktor, it’s me and Viktor, it’s _us_ , the unsub —”

“Mr Katsuki!” Dr Altin exclaims, and there’s a firm hand on his wrist, another covering his phone screen and blocking out the image of Viktor’s arranged fingers. “Mr Katsuki, please look up.”

Yuuri complies, but his gaze darts around the office, trying to place the familiar decor that doesn’t belong in Central Park. “I —” his breaths are coming shorter now, chest constricting. “I —”

“Repeat after me,” Dr Altin says, voice intruding on the haze. “My name is Yuuri Katsuki, and I am in Baltimore, Maryland. It is 4:06 in the afternoon.”

“My name is Yuuri Katsuki,” Yuuri says, the memory of Seung-gil welling up like pus from a festering wound. “I am in Baltimore, Maryland. It is 4:06 in the afternoon.”

“Again,” Dr Altin says.

“My name is Yuuri Katsuki. I am in Baltimore, Maryland. It is 4:06 in the afternoon.” This time, the haze in his mind dissipates a little, the grass and corpses he’d envisioned collapsing in his imagination. Otabek’s fingers are firm on his pulse, and Yuuri finds himself breathing in time with him, unable to breathe on his own.

“You are here,” Dr Altin affirms. “You are nowhere near Central Park. The unsub did not kill _you_.”

“He didn’t kill me,” Yuuri repeats. Dr Altin withdraws his touch, and Yuuri looks at his phone again, staring at the dead man that he’d thought was Viktor in his panic. The skin is a little too dark too be him, the jaw a little too square. There’s a mole near the missing ear, and he finds that he can breathe on his own again as the differences between the dead body and his boyfriend line up like a row of reassuring soldiers. “… He didn’t kill Viktor.”

“Very good.” Dr Altin steeples his fingers. “Perhaps, to make absolutely sure, you’d like to contact your boyfriend.”

Guilt hits Yuuri like a freight train. “I haven’t talked to him in a while,” he admits. “He texts me all the time, but… but I’ve been so afraid to show him myself at my lowest.”

“If he is a boyfriend worth having, he will accept and support you at your lowest,” replies Dr Altin firmly. “If you cannot be vulnerable to someone who is meant to be your significant other, then perhaps you should reconsider who in your life is most important to you.”

“I… he’s just. I told you last time — we’re in separate worlds. He just seems so untouchable. And yet with me, it’s like… he tells me he’s only ever truly himself with me, but… but it’s hard to be myself with him.”

“So you don’t trust your boyfriend?”

“No!” Yuuri blinks in horror. “I — I just don’t want him to see that I’m weak!”

Dr Altin raises an eyebrow. “I never got the impression that you were, Mr Katsuki. Anyone who has gone through what you’ve been through cannot be weak.”

“I had a mental breakdown in the middle of a police station,” Yuuri points out.

“You had a very human reaction to trauma,” Dr Altin corrects. “I think most people in your situation would have had an equally visceral reaction a long time before you had yours.”

Yuuri closes his eyes, fiddles with his phone. Slowly, he closes out the email, pulls up his messaging app. Viktor’s happy holidays message is still the last thing he sees.

 _Are you all right?_ He texts quickly, thumbs flying across the keyboard before his brain can catch up and attempt to dissuade him. He sends the message, taking a deep breath once he does so.

It’s not even been a minute when he gets a ping, but when he checks it, he has to resist the urge to groan. The text isn’t from Viktor; it’s from Yuuko. _Just saw the news, are you all right_?  

 _Yeah_ , he responds quickly, flashing a sheepish look at Dr Altin. _I’m with my therapist right now_.

 _K good_ , she says, with a smiling emoji. _Come over to Christmas dinner when you’re done, the triplets have something for you_.

“Was that your boyfriend?” asks Dr Altin, quirking an eyebrow. Yuuri shakes his head as he pockets his phone.

“No, it was… an old friend. She’s invited me over for Christmas dinner.” Yuuri smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry. I feel like I’ve completely fucked up whatever plans you’d had for tonight.”

“Oh, no,” Dr Altin waves an airy hand. “It’s important to spend time with loved ones, especially during the holidays.”

“Speak for yourself,” Yuuri counters. “You look like you’re gearing up to spend Christmas alone. Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

“I’ll probably call my family in Almaty,” replies Dr Altin. “You know how mothers can get.”

Yuuri chuckles. “What about friends?” he asks.

Dr Altin’s gaze weighs on him for a long second. “It seems they have prior engagements,” he replies, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But don’t worry about me! Netflix will keep me company. They’re coming out with a new season of _Black Mirror_ , so I ought to catch up.”

His cheer is painfully transparent, but Yuuri makes no comment on it, instead clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses. “Um, well,” he says. “I suppose I should go, then, unless there’s anything else we should address?”

“I don’t think so,” says Dr Altin, “unless you have any other concerns?”

Yuuri opens his mouth, but finds that he’s at a loss for words. His mouth works uselessly for a moment, before he closes it and shakes his head, turning to rise from the chair.

“Same time, next week?” he asks. “Unless the unsub gives me another present, that is.”

Dr Altin chuckles wryly. “I suppose,” he says. “Though — would you mind taking some extra dumplings off my hands? I’m sure your old friend would like them.”

Yuuri’s not quite sure why his stomach clenches a little at that. “Yeah,” he says, managing a smile. “Her kids definitely will.”

“Perfect,” says Dr Altin, clapping his hands and leaping to his feet. He leads Yuuri out of the office, gesturing for him to wait at the reception while he goes upstairs to fetch the dumplings. The smell of lamb and fried dough greets Yuuri mere minutes later, as Dr Altin comes back down with a saran-wrapped platter of dumplings in his hands.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, and this time he makes sure the smile is brighter as he takes the platter from Dr Altin. “I’ll bring you back your platter at the next session. And maybe some food, though it might be a bit of a letdown after your own cooking, but don’t let my friend hear you say that —”

“That’s all right,” says Dr Altin, shaking his head. “Just the platter will be fine.”

“Okay.” Yuuri nods, hefts the dumplings into his arms. “Merry Christmas, Otabek.”

Otabek’s smile reaches his eyes this time. “Merry Christmas, Yuuri,” he replies, and gets the door.

On the way to his car, Yuuri’s phone pings again. _I’m ok, thanks for asking_! says Viktor when Yuuri pulls up the text. _I missed you a lot, it was nice to hear from you_!

Yuuri sighs, settling the platter on the roof of his car to type out his response. _I’m sorry about that_ , he admits. _I’ve just been having a rough time of it, but I’m getting better now. I miss you too._

 _Oh, ok_ , is Viktor’s response. _I was worried I did something wrong, because you didn’t talk to me for so long :(_

 _That was my fault_ , says Yuuri. _I’m really sorry_.

 _Oh, don’t worry_! is the cheerful response as Yuuri clambers into the car, putting the dumplings on the passenger seat with a prayer that it won’t spill during the drive to Yuuko’s. _Merry Christmas! How has it been for you so far_?

 _It’s just been another day_ , deflects Yuuri, swallowing back the memories of the bodies in Central Park, locked in their deathly embrace.

To his worry, Viktor’s speech bubble hovers tentatively for a couple minutes before disappearing. After a moment, it resurfaces with a: _that’s not fun :( Christmas should be special!_

 _Well, I’m guessing you’re having a special Christmas_ , replies Yuuri with a wry smile.

 _All the more special now that you’re here!_ is the cheery response. _Could I call you? I haven’t heard you in so long_.

Yuuri sighs. He doesn’t know if he wants Viktor to hear him just yet, hear the uncertainty in his voice or the weaknesses in his sighs. _I’m about to drive_ , he confesses. _I need to focus on the road. Maybe later_?

A pause. _Yeah, that’s fine_ , says Viktor. _But it was good to talk to you for a bit. Stay safe <3_

Yuuri’s fingers hover over the heart emoji on his own keyboard. After a moment, he sighs, and presses it a couple of times.

_< 3 <3 <3 _

Viktor sends him five in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “While I was all absorbed in seeing him,  
> he looked at me, and opened with his hands  
> his bosom, saying: “See how I rend me.”  
> — Dante Alighieri, _The Divine Comedy: Inferno_
> 
> WARNING: more eye horror, mutilation, dismemberment, decapitation, castration, genital mutilation, graphic corpse descriptions as per the course, panic attacks, references to [previous minor character deaths](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13749462/chapters/31595892), mild disassociation, references to child sexual abuse, guns, allusions to Yuuri killing people (in the line of duty), references to the furry community
> 
> Lily: So. This part is only a two-parter but hopefully it will worth your while! It's also the lowkey Hannibal crossover part.  
> Wrath: Will Graham walks into the fic, gives Yuuri some advice and his number, and walks right back out.  
> Lily: We've sorta got this headcanon that in this universe: 1) Thomas Harris's books about catching the Chesapeake Ripper, aka Hannibal, are directly inspired by Will's cases but 2) the fact that there currently is a Hannibal Lecter operating a restaurant in New York City is an ironic coincidence. I've actually met someone IRL named Ana Steele who told me EL James owes her royalties, so I imagine it's the same situation there ;)  
> Wrath: I've actually read a Hannibal AU where Will is an FBI agent and Hannibal runs a restaurant. It's in my bookmarks.  
> Lily: He's definitely a cannibal serial killer in that AU. In this one, that detail about his personality is entirely up to your imagination.  
> Wrath: :3c  
> Lily: For the record, he's not the unsub.  
> Wrath: Well, of _this_ case. I mean, he doesn't even know Yuuri from Adam. He's not even the hot psychiatrist in this verse, Otabek is.  
>  Lily: Also for the record: Otabek's hotness is entirely Wrath's fault.  
> Wrath: >:3c


	2. Becoming One With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings at the end of this chapter.
> 
> Wrath: So this chapter is mostly Lily because of obvious reasons.  
> Lily: It's not my fault you have a specific skill set and refuse to diversify.  
> Wrath: You weren't complaining when I was writing all the dead bodies :)  
> Lily: Fair enough

_January 1, 2018  
Apartment 56B Pierce Street, Rosslyn_

_Happy New Year, Yuuri_!

It’s the first message Yuuri sees when he wakes up on the morning of January 1st. Viktor has sent him a picture of himself haloed in the light of Times Square, bits of confetti in his silvery hair and a glittery noisemaker in his mouth. Yuuri smiles at it, sending a couple laughing emojis back before adding:

_Happy New Year, Viktor, sorry I went to bed before midnight_

_Wow you’re old_ , is the retort, accompanied by a winking face. _Didn’t go to a party?_

 _I’m not really great at parties_ , Yuuri replies. _Especially not the ones you’re expected to drink at._

 _Gotcha_ , says Viktor. Moments later, there’s another picture, but this time it’s of Makkachin, lit by the New Year sunlight as he lies on the marble floor of what is probably Viktor’s apartment. _Makka says happy new year too_! is the caption.

Yuuri smiles. _Tell him he’s a good boy for me._

 _He’s the best boy_ , agrees Viktor. There’s a brief pause, as his typing bubble flashes again and again. Yuuri’s about to close out and check his email, when the message finally sends:

 _Are you ever coming back to NYC_?

Yuuri bites his lip. His thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure of his answer. Besides Phichit’s emails, he’d also occasionally looked over at Minami’s blog to see what the press knows about the newest bodies. But all Minami has posted about — besides the frozen thread on the photographs of him and Viktor — is a short contemplative blurb about where Yuuri could possibly be. Everyone by now has noticed that Yuuri is missing from the case; his team have even moved on to other cases in the city like the weapons trafficking case back in October, and the triad turf war in December.

Phichit had remarked that a high-ranking member in one of the triads, whose body had been found displayed at a back-alley dumpster in Harlem, fit the victimology. Yuuri had told him it was extremely unlikely that the unsub would capture a triad member for his purposes.

Shou Kobayashi had clearly been a one-off burst of vigilantism. The fact that the unsub had presented him to ‘justice’ on Yuuri’s birthday clearly marked him as special.

He sighs. _When I’m ready to come back to NYC, I’ll let you know_ , he offers. It’s not a straight answer, and he’s sure Viktor sees it as prevarication, too, but in this moment his stomach is tied into knots at the idea of diving back into the case once more.

Especially if it leads to Viktor getting hurt as a result of the unsub’s jealousy.

His phone pings again. _Ok_ , Viktor says, and Yuuri tries to remember the timbre of his voice, the shine of the streetlamps in his eyes. _I’m heading out to London soon, and then Milan. Any chance I’ll catch you in NYC when I get back_?

 _Depends_ , Yuuri replies. _I don’t know when I can return, I’m also pretty busy over here. That’s why I said I’ll let you know_.

 _Yeah fair_. Another pause. _Please take care, solnyshko. Stay safe_.

Yuuri smiles. _I should be telling you that,_ he says. _The unsub’s killing you in effigy, too_.

There’s a long moment when Viktor doesn’t reply, but when he does, it’s a simple:

_I’m not scared of any killer as long as you’re here to protect me :)_

Yuuri can’t help the soft golden flutter in his chest at that.

* * *

_January 9, 2018  
Au Bon Pain, Washington D.C._

_i’m in DC!_

The text startles Yuuri from the sandwich he’d been eating. He reads it, and then rereads it, and then frowns a little.

 _Where in DC?_ he asks, just as Yuuko raises an eyebrow at him from across the table.

“So,” she says. “Will you do it?”

Yuuri blinks. “What?” he asks.

“Babysit the triplets for me tomorrow,” replies Yuuko. “Takeshi and I are following up on a lead we got from the evidence extracted from your, uh, birthday present from the Katsuki Killer. We’re hoping to apprehend one of our other suspects in the DC area tomorrow, and might be out ‘till late.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. He nods. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Yuuko chuckles. “You can bring your boyfriend, too,” she teases, nodding towards the most recent notification that had popped up on his screen. _The National Mall_! says Viktor. Moments later, there’s also a photograph of the Washington Monument.

Yuuri feels his ears turning red. “I… uh. You sure about that?”

“Yeah, just get me his fingerprints and I’ll run a quick background check on him,” jokes Yuuko. She winks at him. “No, it’s fine. He’s your boyfriend. I trust him.”

Yuuri laughs at that, and turns back to his sandwich. “I should go pick him up,” he says. “I… I didn’t even know he’d be in town.”

“Maybe he misses you,” teases Yuuko.

Yuuri shakes his head. “Or he’s just interested in the Smithsonian,” he points out.

Yuuko rolls her eyes at that, taking a pointed sip of her soda. Yuuri sighs.

“Okay, fine. Maybe he came here in hopes of seeing me.”

“God, you’re going to be at the altar someday and you’re going to ask the other person if they’re sure they still like you.” Yuuko rolls her eyes. “Go get your man, Yuuri-kun. Go get laid, for once in your life —”

“Shut up!” hisses Yuuri, lunging across the table, but Yuuko dodges him with a peal of laughter, and Yuuri nearly topples the food as a result. He settles back with a grumble and a pout, before boxing up his sandwich and firing off a text to Viktor.

_I’ll be there to get you in a moment :)_

The response comes back as he gets to his car. _Let’s go to dinner. My treat._

Yuuri smiles. _Ok :)_

The drive from the café to the National Mall takes longer than it should, of course, because of the rush-hour traffic. Yuuri’s only consolation is that it’s undoubtedly worse in New York. Still, he pulls up a lot later than he’d like in a parking spot near the Lincoln Memorial and calls Viktor.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“ _Where are_ you?” counters Viktor. Yuuri shivers, but not because of the cold. “ _If you’re here, I’ll go to wherever you are.”_

“I’m by the Lincoln Memorial,” says Yuuri. “I’ll go out to the stairs and meet you there.”

The afternoon is fading into twilight by the time a familiar flash of silver hair appears at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Though the steps of the memorial are edged in small white piles of slush, Viktor’s light pea coat and brilliant smile remind Yuuri of spring instead.

He’s back in the man’s arms before he even really realises it, tucking his face in the crook of Viktor’s neck, drowning himself in the scent of his cologne. Viktor’s heartbeat is a familiar rhythm against his own, one that he has sorely missed.

“It’s been so long,” Viktor murmurs when they pull apart. “And I had so much to say to you, but —” He puts his hands on both sides of Yuuri’s head, bringing their foreheads together. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” The words come easily, almost automatically. “But… I thought you were busy in Europe.”

“There’s a lull between London and Milan, and I had to see you again,” says Viktor, his sigh heavy against Yuuri’s heart. “It’s one thing to know you’re there because you’re responding to me on the phone. It’s another to see you in person. God, I just —”

Yuuri shuts him up the only way he knows how. Viktor’s lips are soft against his own. He hadn’t even really realised they could be soft. He kisses like heaven, sweet and slow and reverential; his pupils are blown wide when Yuuri pulls back to look at him.

Panic seizes Yuuri briefly. “I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I didn’t think, and you were just so… and the light…”

Viktor chuckles at that, a low, tender sound that sparks a line right to Yuuri’s crotch. “Don’t worry about it,” he says quietly, tipping Yuuri’s chin up and raking in the sight of his lips with a hungry stare, “I’ve dreamed about this for so long, you don’t even know.”

“I could guess,” says Yuuri, one hand coming up to memorise the contour of Viktor’s cheek.

“You don’t need to,” says Viktor, briefly running a thumb across Yuuri’s lower lip before leaning in and returning his kiss again, and again, and again.

* * *

_January 9, 2018  
Joe’s Seafood, Washington D.C._

The last of the golden twilight has faded into nighttime by the time they find themselves situated at a table for two at Joe’s Seafood.

“I was just here a couple weeks ago,” Yuuri remarks drily. “Annual FBI holiday party, though I mostly just kept to myself at it. This is much nicer, I think.”

“I thought you’re not one for parties?” wonders Viktor innocently from behind the wine menu. Yuuri chuckles, trying not to stare too hard at the prices printed next to most of the dishes.

“I’m not, but when else am I going to eat stone crab without footing the bill myself?” Viktor gestures to himself, and Yuuri flushes harder. “I mean, yeah, point. Thank you, by the way —”

“It’s no trouble,” replies Viktor lightly. “Anything for you.”

“That’s a pretty dangerous request,” Yuuri mumbles, and Viktor laughs at that. In a desperate attempt to make his cheeks feel less on fire, he changes the subject. “So, uh. Are you… staying anywhere? A hotel or something?”

“I booked a room at the Mayflower,” says Viktor. “I actually checked in before I went to the National Mall. I just — I didn’t want to impose, so…” he trails off, shrugging. Yuuri reaches across the table and covers Viktor’s hand with his.

“It’s all right. I wouldn’t mind if you, uh, came to stay with me. It’d save you some money.”

“Money’s not really an issue,” says Viktor, looking down at their joined hands. “Like I said, I really don’t want to trouble you —”

“No, it’d be no trouble!” Yuuri smiles, running his thumb along Viktor’s. “Phichit’s not in, obviously, so there’s an extra bed if you’re not comfortable with sharing mine. But if you’d rather stay at the Mayflower, I totally understand — I mean, it’s more central to touristy things —”

“No!” says Viktor immediately, his eyes wide and sparkling in the candlelight at their table. “I’d love to stay with you!”

Yuuri lets go of the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. “Okay,” he says, warm exhilaration coursing heady and brilliant through his veins. “So that’s settled, then.”

“Yes,” agrees Viktor, beaming. “For these next three days, you’ll have stolen me from the world.”

Yuuri can’t help but laugh at that. “Kidnapping’s a felony in this country,” he points out.

Viktor laughs, too, bright and bell-like. “It’s not kidnapping if I wanted you to,” he replies, and all Yuuri feels is warmth.

The rest of the dinner passes in a pleasant blur of fine wine and finer seafood. Viktor orders them stone crab claws and oysters, and they wash it all down with a Chablis Grand Cru. For dessert, Yuuri selects a light mascarpone cheesecake pie to pair with two glasses of Brut, and clinks his against Viktor’s with a smile as they tuck into their pie.

“What a damn fine pie,” he remarks after a bite, and Viktor laughs.

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to bake those,” he says, thoughtfully cutting himself a small forkful. “But unfortunately the only thing I know how to bake is cookies. From premade cookie dough.”

Yuuri snorts. “Better than what I can do,” he replies. “My culinary talents extend mostly just to reheating leftovers and making instant ramen. Phichit’s despaired of it a couple times.”

“Well, I do know cooking,” says Viktor, shrugging. “Easier than baking, at least. Baking’s more of a delayed-action chemistry experiment, and I was never really good at chem in school.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “School, huh?”

Viktor laughs. “Hated every second,” he says. “I dropped out of it, and here I am. The worst poster child for staying in school, ever.”

“A pretty good poster child for Armani, though,” Yuuri points out, and Viktor giggles and inclines his head at that. “Still, you don’t strike me as the type — you seem very disciplined and well-educated.”

“I seem to recall an old saying about books and front covers,” retorts Viktor with a wink, and now it’s Yuuri’s turn to incline his head in concession. He takes another bite of the pie, savouring the creamy taste of the mascarpone. A smudge of it catches on the corner of his mouth; he flicks his tongue to get it, and Viktor’s hands tremble briefly on his fork when he sees that.

“So, uh.” Yuuri swallows, feeling a little hot under his collar. “Did you have any other plans for tonight?”

Viktor bites his lip; Yuuri’s blood rushes at the sight of the flush in his cheeks. “I was originally just going to hop a couple bars and clubs,” says his boyfriend thoughtfully, tapping at the spot where his teeth had worried. “But I have to say —” And here he leans in, his breath tickling the shell of Yuuri’s ear: “You’re a much more compelling item on my to-do list.”

Yuuri adjusts his glasses, as a wave of arousal suddenly hits him low and warm in his gut. “How soon can we get out of here?” he asks, and Viktor grins.

* * *

_January 9, 2018  
_ _The Mayflower Hotel, Washington D.C._

Apparently, not soon enough. Because as soon as they get out of the restaurant, they have to go to the Mayflower and fetch Viktor’s luggage. Viktor somehow manages to transfer his room over to a newlywed couple; both women look as if they could kiss him as he hands over his keycard.

“Their booking hadn’t gone through,” Viktor explains as Yuuri wheels his Louis Vuitton luggage out to where he’d stalled his car at the front curb. “What serendipity though! A perfect hotel room no longer wasted.”

“Are you sure you’re fine with staying with me?” asks Yuuri. “It’s not, you know.” He gestures vaguely around him at the luxurious surroundings. “I haven’t even changed my sheets lately.”

“Anywhere with you is better than a five-star hotel by myself,” declares Viktor, swooping in to peck him gently on the lips. Yuuri’s heart flutters at that, and he quickly turns his attention to getting Viktor’s luggage into the trunk of his car instead.

The drive out to his flat in Rosslyn is punctuated by melodic snatches of song on the radio and Viktor’s gentle humming. Yuuri tries to keep his eyes fixed on the road, though at every stoplight he has to pause to take in the golden form of his boyfriend as he practically glows under the light of the streetlamps. In these quiet moments, he notices that there’s some lines on Viktor’s face, some shadows under his eyes that speak to a more pervasive loneliness that the man expertly hides with each smile he offers to the public. His heart clenches at it, wanting nothing more than to tell Viktor that he doesn’t have to be alone again, now that he’s here.

But instead of telling him, Yuuri shows him as they walk hand-in-hand across the threshold of his flat and take off their shoes, as he sets down the suitcase and closes the door. The moment the deadbolt clicks into place, he steps closer to Viktor, their breaths mingling in the space between their bodies. Viktor gently tucks a stray strand of hair from behind his ear, and Yuuri licks nervously at his lips in reply.

Viktor kisses him again, and it’s as if a dam has burst. Yuuri melts into his touch, his hands coming up to Viktor’s waist, his mouth opening to deepen the kiss. When they pull back for air, Yuuri feels his knees tremble a little at the way Viktor’s eyes seem to glint at him even from the shadows of the apartment.

“Come with me,” he offers, pulling Viktor through the living room and kitchen space, all the way to his bedroom.

His room’s a lot neater than it has been for the past several months, but it’s still fairly messy. Yuuri sheds his coat and cardigan before hastily slamming the door on the growing laundry pile in the closet, but Viktor doesn’t seem to have noticed as he tosses his coat and scarf carelessly on the chair by the desk, as if neither of them are thousand-dollar items from Burberry.

He’s wearing a charcoal-coloured sweater and a button-down under, and Yuuri makes short work of both of them, eyes widening as the pale expanse of Viktor’s chest comes into view. In the light filtering in from the window, Viktor’s nipples are dusky against his skin, pebbling to hardness under Yuuri’s touch.

“I can’t believe it,” Viktor breathes, his hands gripping at Yuuri’s sheets with white-knuckled intensity. “I can’t believe we’re finally here.”

Yuuri laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “It took me a while,” he admits, resting one knee on Viktor’s thighs. The model chuckles, drawing him in closer by his waist.

“You’ve gotten fitter,” he remarks, his eyes wide as his hands run along the small of Yuuri’s back. “Twenty-eight inches?”

Yuuri feels his cheeks heating up. “Really?” he asks. “You can tell?”

“I can approximate,” says Viktor, winking. “You pick up some things when you’ve been in fashion for over two decades.” His hands move down, cupping the swell of Yuuri’s ass. “You’d be a fantastic model, you know. Dressed up in the loveliest suits, the finest lingerie —”

Yuuri shivers, and then flushes harder. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could do the walk.”

“That could be taught,” Viktor points out. “I could coach you.”

“I’ll consider it as a retirement option,” jokes Yuuri. Viktor’s hands undo his belt buckle as his eyes dart up questioningly. Yuuri rests a hand on Viktor’s shoulder and nods.

Slowly, they discard the rest of their clothing. Yuuri notes a small scar on Viktor’s kneecap when his trousers come off, but the model laughs and shrugs at it, attributing it to a bad fall from a tree in his childhood.

“How does a rough-and-tumble kid like yourself grow up to be a supermodel?” wonders Yuuri at that, and Viktor chuckles as he finishes undoing the last of Yuuri’s shirt buttons. The cotton slides to the floor in a soft whisper, leaving Yuuri in just his briefs as he loops his arms around Viktor’s neck, pulling their chests flush against one another.

“How does a visual masterpiece like yourself end up as an FBI agent?” Viktor retorts, quirking an eyebrow. Yuuri laughs.

“I’ve had a fondness for puzzles and whodunits since I was a kid,” he replies. “And when I was sixteen, I saw this _X-Files_ -inspired fashion spread in one of my sister’s magazines, which got me to look up the show, which got me —”

“Oh my god,” breathes Viktor, his eyes sparkling. “My mother organised that spread. I was just a kid then, but she had me dress like Dana Scully despite the fact that we look nothing alike.”

“That was _you_?” demands Yuuri. “I thought that was a girl!”

“I had long hair for the longest time,” replies Viktor, shrugging. “People love androgyny with their models.”

Yuuri huffs a little. One of Viktor’s hands comes up to rest on his upper left shoulder, tracing a familiar pattern with a slight frown.

“What’s that?” he asks quietly. Yuuri feels his stomach clenching at the contemplative expression on his boyfriend’s face.

“Do you… not like scars?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “What’s it from?”

“A bullet wound,” replies Yuuri. “I’ve got another one down here —” he gestures to the right side of his abdomen, “and some knife scars on my hips and legs. I’m sorry if —”

He’s cut off by Viktor’s kiss. “They’re perfect,” declares the model against his lips, vehemently pulling him even closer by the hairs of his nape. “They’re proof of how brave you are, of all the bad guys you’ve caught. Do you have stories for them?”

Yuuri laughs. “Maybe later,” he suggests, and Viktor nods in eager assent, a sly smile slipping across his face as he falls back onto the bed, his silver hair fanning out like a halo against the sheets.

“Come and get me, Agent Katsuki,” he teases. Yuuri feels his cheeks flush harder as he straddles Viktor’s hips, leaning down closer.

“That’s — I try to keep my work out of the bedroom,” he mumbles. Viktor looks a little chastened at that, so Yuuri puts on a smile and adds, “besides, I thought I already stole you from the world.”

Viktor pouts at that. “Do it again,” he wheedles, trying to chase Yuuri’s lips with a little desperation. Yuuri laughs, one hand coming to rest on Viktor’s chest. He grinds down against Viktor’s hips, earning himself a sudden groan of pleasure.

“Was that okay?” he breathes, but Viktor is already grinding back up against him, soft little needy sounds escaping his throat at every brush of their clothed erections against one another. And with each touch, each kiss, each whimper, Yuuri finds what’s left of his self-control slipping and crumbling, too.

He only has enough presence of mind to roll down his briefs; Viktor, too, pulls back the flimsy black material of his thong (Yuuri barely has enough blood in his brain to register how little that scrap of clothing leaves to the imagination), taking out his cock and stroking it to full hardness. Yuuri can’t help but lick his lips at the sight of it, taking in the small bead of precome at the tip, the thick and velvety shaft. Hesitantly, he reaches out; eagerly, Viktor cants his hips towards him, letting him take him in hand.

_Oh God. He’s perfect._

And that’s the last cogent thought Yuuri has before he presses their cocks together and loses himself entirely.

He comes back a while later, his mind still half a hazy fog of pleasure as his hips slow to a gentler rhythm. Viktor is flushed and golden in the streetlamps filtering in through the window, little beads of sweat gathering along his high forehead. Yuuri’s chest is heaving, too; he pulls back from Viktor’s body to see the mess of white across Viktor’s stomach, and startles apologetically.

“I’ll clean us up,” he says, scrambling for the tissues, but Viktor only gives him an indolent smile, spread like some magnificent oil painting across Yuuri’s cheap Target sheets. Blushing furiously, Yuuri cleans them up, clambering off of Viktor so that he can toss the tissues in the trash can by his desk.

Viktor hums in amusement as Yuuri rolls his briefs back up, his own thong still lying low across his ass as he turns around and hugs one of the pillows, shooting a flirtatious grin at him. Yuuri nudges him aside just enough to pull back his comforter, slipping it over both of them as he nestles in against Viktor’s warmth.

“Tell me about your scars,” Viktor suggests, his hand coming to trace the ones along Yuuri’s abdomen and hips. Yuuri chuckles at that, tucking his head against Viktor’s collar, pressing kisses against his jugular.

“The one you’re touching right now is a graze wound from a bullet that I got from one of my major cases after Peter Lancaster,” he mumbles. “My unit was tracking a vigilante serial killer who’d been targeting people who, uh, post personal information about other people on Twitter.”

Viktor hums. “Revenge porn or doxxing?” he wonders.

“The latter. You might have heard about it, I think John Oliver did a comedy segment about doxxing while it was happening. It was a really controversial thing, considering that the people who got doxxed weren’t angels, either.”

Viktor’s eyes widen. “Oh, right, Andrew Scholes!” he exclaims. “I think I read about it somewhere, yeah.”

“Probably Kenjirou Minami’s blog,” says Yuuri, rolling his eyes. Viktor’s hands move to his hips, his eyebrows quirked inquisitively, and Yuuri sighs. “That one, I think, was from a suspect we tried to apprehend in connection with a series of, uh, really culturally appropriative ritualistic murders.”

“Wait, wait, I think I read about that one, too. Wasn’t that the Seppuku Slasher?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I’m not sure how to feel about the fact that you know about these guys,” he remarks, and Viktor’s eyes go wide and innocent.

“It was a catchy name,” he defends. “I didn’t know _you_ were involved. Did you ever catch him?”

Yuuri sighs, shaking his head. “The trail went cold while I was on the case, but I heard Chicago PD got him for a parking ticket.” He laughs wryly, tracing designs across Viktor’s collarbones, noting the small freckles splayed across his neck like stars. “I still think we could have got him sooner if the press hadn’t stirred up so much public interest and given him a catchy name. When it comes down to our memories of crimes, you never hear about the victims. Just the perpetrators.”

“Yeah,” says Viktor quietly. “And you don’t know much about the investigators, too.” He reaches out, walks his fingers up Yuuri’s chest with a small smile. “I’m so glad I get to hear about these from you. Were you ever scared? When you’re about to make an arrest or something?”

Yuuri exhales. “Always,” he says, shivering as Viktor’s hand rubs circles against his non-scarred shoulder. “But when you’re in the middle of it, you sort of lose… sight of the rest of the world. All that adrenaline drowns out the rest of the voices in your head, and all you know is that you have to stop the bad guys, save the survivors. Nothing else.”

“Have you ever killed someone?” Viktor’s eyes are wide. Yuuri swallows.

“Twice,” he says. “These two kids thought they could top off their killing spree with a Bonnie-and-Clyde shootout against the FBI at some diner in Kansas. I… I can still smell the asphalt sometimes, and the smoke from the gunfire. It was like a Tarantino film. You never forget the first time you take a life.”

Viktor exhales at that. “Wow,” he says after a moment, trailing his fingers up Yuuri’s shoulder, against his neck where his pulse flutters and beats. Yuuri shivers, despite the heater being on in the apartment and the comforter being warm and soft, and tucks himself in closer against his boyfriend.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have unloaded all of that,” he apologises. “It’s been a long time since I last… since I last was like this,” he gestures to the space around them, “with anyone.”

“I’m honoured,” replies Viktor quietly. “It’s nice to see the real you for once. Not the press conference you.” He takes Yuuri’s hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Just Yuuri, not Agent Katsuki.”

Yuuri smiles, the warmth in his chest blooming ever so brightly as he wraps his arms around Viktor and closes his eyes.

* * *

_January 10, 2018  
Apartment 56B Pierce Street, Rosslyn_

In the morning, Yuuri wakes to a warm but empty bed beside him.

His first instinct is to wonder how much of last night had been a dream, but when his eyes land on the pea coat and checkered scarf lying on the chair nearby, he can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.

After sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and grabbing his glasses from the nightstand where he’d put them last night, Yuuri looks around, trying to figure out where Viktor could have gone. His suitcase has been moved into the room, already open with the clothes from last night tossed haphazardly inside. With a soft sigh, Yuuri clambers out of his bed, searching around the room for his old Quantico t-shirt and finding it nowhere.

He digs out a Wayne State University shirt from his bureau instead, and exits the room to the smell of frying bacon and eggs. Viktor is in the kitchen when he gets there, cheerily frying some bacon and eggs. Yuuri’s stomach flutters at the sight.

“I feel like I should explain that eggs and bacon also fall under my culinary skills,” he says.

Viktor laughs at that. “I figured as much, considering the state of your fridge,” he replies.

Yuuri sighs, as he gets out the plates for Viktor to move the finished food onto. “I’m not a really _good_ cook, but most of the time I’m just cooking for myself.” He laughs, a little ruefully. “I mean, I wouldn’t have survived thirty-two years if I hadn’t, right?”

Viktor beams at him. “What _do_ you know how to make?” he asks.

Yuuri hums as he carries the plates over to the kitchen counter. “Eggs. Bacon. Katsudon, except quality panko bread crumbs are difficult to find in this area, so I can’t make it as often as I’d like.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow as he adds some cutlery to the plates. “What about in New York?” he asks, almost innocently. Yuuri swallows at that.

“We’ll see,” he says, and takes a seat at the kitchen counter, spearing one of the bacon with his fork. “Thanks, Viktor.”

Viktor beams at him from over his shoulder as he pokes at the Keurig next to the dish drying rack, taking down two mugs from the mug tree. “What’s your poison in the morning? Coffee, right?”

“And tea, if I can get it,” says Yuuri. “The FBI field office never has anything I like, though, besides the borderline-illegal brown substance they call coffee there. And that’s not so much ‘like’ as ‘rely on’, so.”

Viktor chuckles at that, before rummaging in the cupboards for the k-cups. Moments later, Yuuri has a mug of dark roast to go along with his breakfast, and Viktor is pulling up his own chair with a smile, poking at his eggs as his tea cools on the counter beside him.

“Your apartment’s pretty nice,” he says.

“It could look better if I had time to clean,” replies Yuuri, flushing. Viktor looks at him for a long moment, an appraising smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Yuuri tries not to think too hard on that as he takes another bite of the bacon.

It’s delicious, of course, and done just the way he likes it. He only gets a couple bites in before the toaster pings, two slices of toast popping up out of it suddenly. Viktor scrambles to plate that, alongside a small jar of strawberry jam. Yuuri raises an eyebrow as Viktor stirs in a spoonful of jam into his tea; Viktor chuckles as he licks the spoon clean.

“It’s a Russian thing,” he says. “I’ve done it all my life.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” says Yuuri. “It’s cute.”

Viktor’s cheeks flush at that, and he turns his attention to his own bacon. Yuuri spreads some jam onto his slice of toast, eating it alongside contemplative sips of coffee. The morning light filtering in through the window casts Viktor in an angelic golden light; once again, Yuuri has to wonder how someone as painfully human as himself could have caught the attention of someone like Viktor.

“So,” Viktor says after a moment. “What are we going to do today?”

Yuuri hums. “Have you ever been to D.C.?” he asks.

Viktor purses his lips. “Not recently,” he replies. “I’ve done some of the touristy things, but not all of them.”

“Which touristy things _have_ you done?” asks Yuuri.

“Most of the monuments,” replies Viktor, shrugging. “Air and Space Museum, Natural History Museum… and that’s about it.”

“Not the National Gallery?” asks Yuuri. Viktor shakes his head. “Well, I guess that’s a good place as any to begin.”

“Why would I want to go to an art museum, though?” wonders Viktor innocently in between sips of his tea. “You’re the only masterpiece I care to look at.”

Yuuri can’t help but laugh at that. “That was terrible,” he says, even as his stomach curls with warm arousal. Viktor leans in closer to him, peering up at him through his long silvery lashes, and Yuuri’s traitorous heart skips a beat as Viktor’s hands move ever closer to his body.

Their first kiss this morning is sweet, slow, flavoured by the taste of coffee and breakfast. Yuuri tastes a swipe of jam at the edge of Viktor’s lips; he moans into the kiss and tugs Viktor closer, almost halfway out of his chair.

Viktor’s hands linger close by Yuuri’s even as they pull apart to finish breakfast; their pinkies brush briefly against one another as Yuuri drains the last dregs of his mug. Once both their plates and mugs are clear, Yuuri takes everything over to the sink and starts to wash them.

But it seems that Viktor has a different idea in mind. Yuuri’s just moved on to the frying pan when he feels Viktor’s arms slip around his waist, Viktor’s lips press against the nape of his neck. A shiver runs down his spine as he leans back into Viktor’s chest, his hands going slack on the dish cloth.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he remarks after a moment, turning around and gesturing to the Quantico t-shirt riding up over Viktor’s abs. “I was wondering where it went.”

Viktor grins. “Guilty as charged,” he says. “What’s the punishment for shirt larceny?”

Yuuri laughs at that, tapping thoughtfully at his chin as he presses back against the counter, bringing Viktor with him. The other man seems to slot perfectly against him, the slightest brush of his fingertips raising goosebumps along Yuuri’s arm.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “Not as egregious as consensual kidnapping or grand theft cardiac, I’d imagine.”

“ _Grand theft cardiac_ ,” echoes Viktor, a little breathlessly. “That’s _gotta_ be a capital offense.”

Yuuri nods. “A little death for a big crime,” he replies, before leaning up to recapture Viktor’s lips.

His back digs into the counter moments later, but he doesn’t care. Viktor’s kissing him needily, his body pressed flush against Yuuri’s own. His hands play with the hem of Yuuri’s shirt before slipping down to cup the swell of Yuuri’s ass. Yuuri gasps then, his breath fleeing him as Viktor pulls back to grin deviously at him.

“I seem to recall you’re the one who’s standing trial for stealing my heart,” he says, gently poking at Yuuri’s sternum. “Which means you’re the one who’ll have to face the punishment for it.”

“I’m sure I did it in the execution of my duty,” Yuuri replies, and Viktor laughs just as he sinks to his knees in front of him, pressing a kiss to the spot just above Yuuri’s left kneecap.

“I’m sure you did,” he teases, before leaning up to press yet another kiss to the inside of Yuuri’s thigh. “You can also consider this as penance for the shirt.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” replies Yuuri, even as all of the blood in his body seems interested in coursing southwards. “For one, you look good in that shirt, which makes you a danger to the public. I can’t just let you off with a warning.”

“Are you going to make an example of me, then?” teases Viktor, pressing yet another kiss to the inside of his thigh, but a little higher. Yuuri exhales, his fingers tangling themselves in Viktor’s hair.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes I am.” And he brings Viktor’s lips flush against the bulge in his briefs, against the spot where Yuuri aches the hardest for him. Viktor’s pupils are blown wide in the morning light; his fingers quickly scrabble to pull down Yuuri’s briefs, freeing his cock from its cotton confines.

“ _God_ , Yuuri,” Viktor purrs, looking up at him through his lashes as the tips of his long, slender fingers ghost along the shaft of Yuuri’s cock. “You’re so hot when you’re needy.”

“Am I needy all the time?” wonders Yuuri, mildly embarrassed, but Viktor only laughs in response.

“Only in the best ways,” he says, licking a light stripe along the shaft to the tip. His hands grip around the base, cup Yuuri’s balls. “I love it when you take what you want.”

Yuuri huffs in amusement. “If that’s the case, then what I want is for you to put that pretty mouth to better use,” he says, in what he hopes is an authoritative enough voice. It does the trick — Viktor complies like a dream, wrapping his lips around the tip of his cock before swallowing down, and _god_ , his mouth is heaven.

Yuuri can’t remember the last time he felt so wanted, so needed. Viktor takes him in almost completely, his gaze never leaving Yuuri’s from under those long silver lashes. And despite the fact that he’s not the one on his knees with a dick in his mouth, Yuuri finds himself lost for breath as Viktor starts to move.

For this brief, brilliant moment, the world narrows down to just the two of them, to just the cold tile of the kitchen counter digging into Yuuri’s back and the warmth of Viktor’s mouth pressing against his cock. He’s skilled, extremely so — Yuuri’s knuckles go white against the counter and Viktor’s hair as he tries not to collapse into a boneless pile with every new sensitive spot that his boyfriend discovers. When Viktor pulls back to suck gently against Yuuri’s balls, one smooth pale cheek pressed against his shaft, Yuuri barely bites back a scream.

Both of his hands find their way into Viktor’s hair, fingers tightening as Viktor moves his lips back along his cock. Viktor moans around the tip as Yuuri bucks his hips; he stills his head to let Yuuri thrust into his mouth, use him for his own pleasure. His own hands reach down to palm himself; Yuuri lets him for a moment longer before raising his knee slightly, knocking back Viktor’s hands from his own burgeoning erection.

Viktor’s eyes widen from around Yuuri’s cock; the blue seems to get almost impossibly darker. His thighs fall open as he leans his body against the length of Yuuri’s shins, bucking his hips needily against Yuuri’s feet.

Yuuri flushes. “Are you sure?” he breathes.

Viktor’s only response is a low moan and an enthusiastic bob. Hesitantly, Yuuri presses down, careful of his pressure even as Viktor leans into the touch. Viktor’s hands pick up their pace against Yuuri’s cock, while Yuuri feels mostly just grateful for having recently mopped the floor, at the very least.

And overwhelmed in general, but that’s almost a given. It’s been far too long since he had last experienced such pleasure, and the coy smile that plays at Viktor’s lips as he eases off Yuuri’s cock to pump his shaft does terrible things to his heart. He presses down a little harder, rubbing ever so softly against Viktor’s crotch, and Viktor presses back up with a soft gasp against his tip.

“You can do it harder,” Viktor breathes just before he swallows Yuuri down again. Yuuri grinds down his arch, before trailing his toes along Viktor’s hardness; Viktor moans against him then, and somehow that’s enough to make Yuuri come.

Viktor swallows down every last drop of him, even licking his lips as he’s done. Yuuri feels his cheeks heating in embarrassment, but the flush only gets worse as he steps down again and Viktor comes, tossing his head back with Yuuri’s name sweet on his lips as he does.

Yuuri barely has time to recover before his mobile rings. He scrambles to answer it, barely registering Yuuko’s caller ID before she’s reminding him he’s supposed to be babysitting the triplets today. “ _You promised, Yuuri_!” she reminds him cheerily. “ _It’s almost 10, and Takeshi and I need to go_!”

Yuuri bites back a curse. “Right, right, I overslept my alarm,” he lies, shooting Viktor a glare to stop him from giggling. The model complies, tucking his Cheshire grin behind one hand. “I’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

“ _Take your time_ ,” says Yuuko. “ _You just need to get them from Sidwell Lower School in the afternoon; I’ve put you on the visitor list for picking them up today_.”

“The Lower School’s the one in Bethesda, right?” asks Yuuri.

“ _Yup. Feel free to make whatever for dinner, but_ not _just ice cream and ramen. And make sure Loop eats all of her vegetables; she gets picky sometimes. Axel like her apples peeled and will beg for extra caramel dipping sauce. Make sure she brushes her teeth after_.”

“I know, I know,” says Yuuri. “I’ll go pick something up from Wegmans on the way.”

“ _Perfect, they love the mac and cheese from there_ ,” replies Yuuko. “ _And — is Viktor with you? If he’s coming with you, I should add him to the visitor list, too_.”

Yuuri looks over at Viktor, who’s now finishing up washing the frying pan with a soft smile on his lips. The morning light only accentuates the glow about his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says. “We’ll both be there.”

“ _Gotcha_.” Yuuko’s grin could be heard over the connection. “ _Call me if there’s any trouble, okay? Thanks for doing this, again_.”

Yuuri hums in agreement. Yuuko hangs up, and Viktor turns to him as he’s setting down the phone. “Who was that?” he asks, one hand coming to rest on Yuuri’s hip. Yuuri leans into it with a soft sigh.

“My friend, Yuuko,” he says. “I almost forgot she asked me to babysit her kids today.”

“Oh?” Viktor arches an eyebrow. “How old?”

“Five-year-olds,” says Yuuri. “Or six, I wasn’t counting the candles at their last birthday party. We’ll have to pick them up from school at 3 and watch them until Yuuko and her husband get back.”

“Get back from what?” wonders Viktor, tilting his head.

“Some sort of operation,” says Yuuri. “They’re in Crimes Against Children, and they’ve been cracking down on a child pornography ring for the past couple of months.” He pauses, trying not to remember the grotesque body deposited on his birthday. “Actually, the unsub on _my_ case helped with that.”

Viktor’s other eyebrow raises. “They did?” he asks, his tone blank.

Yuuri snorts, looping his arms around Viktor’s neck. “He went vigilante and hunted down the head of the ring, presenting him to me on my birthday like a suckling pig.” He doesn’t even bother keeping the disgust out of his voice, though Viktor seems to have gone a little still under him. “I’m sorry, that’s… kinda graphic. I mean. He gave us the man’s body and enough evidence to incriminate several of the other members. So I guess a broken clock still works twice a day.”

Viktor chuckles, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s hair. “You think the… the killer’s a broken clock?”

“What else is he? He’s harming his fellow human beings out of some delusion that _I’d_ like it.” Yuuri closes his eyes, exhales in the smell of laundry detergent against Viktor’s collar. “But… let’s not talk about this, okay? We’ve got a couple hours before we need to pick up the kids. What do you want to do?”

Viktor’s contemplative expression brightens into a mischievous one. “I can think of some things,” he replies, and leads Yuuri out of the kitchen back to the bedroom.

* * *

_January 10, 2018  
Sidwell Friends Lower School, Bethesda_

It takes a minor miracle for Yuuri to be able to clamber out of bed again, but when he does, he gets distracted by Viktor joining him in the shower, which only further prolongs the delay. But eventually they get dressed in clothes that could be worn out in public, and Yuuri drives them first to Wegmans to grab their dinner (and dessert, and other supplies), and then to the Nishigori triplets’ school in Bethesda, Maryland.

“Uncle Yuuri!” screams Axel when they show up, visitors’ badges and all, to fetch them from their classroom. “We missed you!”

“I just saw you three at New Year’s,” Yuuri rebukes.

“And Christmas,” adds Lutz. “And the holiday party at Joe’s.”

“So you’ve seen me more times than you need,” replies Yuuri.

“Nuh-uh,” says Loop. “We didn’t see you all year before you came back. You’re just making up for missing visits.”

Yuuri laughs dryly, ruffling the girls’ hair. “Okay, come on, let’s go.”

That’s when the girls turn and see Viktor. “Who’s he?” asks Axel.

“He’s Uncle Yuuri’s boyfriend, _duh_ ,” hisses Lutz, elbowing her sister. Yuuri sends an apologetic look at Viktor, who only flushes proudly at that.

“I’m Viktor,” he says, extending a hand. The girls shake it solemnly, exchanging looks between one another as if communicating through telepathy. Yuuri vaguely wonders if that’s how they manage to concoct such elaborate pranks on people.

“Nice to meet you, Viktor,” says Axel.

“We like you only because Yuuri likes you,” adds Lutz.

“You’ll grow on them eventually,” Yuuri cuts in a little hastily.

“He doesn’t need to grow anymore,” Loop replies. “He’s already so tall.”

Viktor laughs at that. “They’re adorable,” he says, and Yuuri smiles, patting Axel’s back and pointing towards the parking lot where his car is.

“Come on, girls, let’s go find my car,” he says, and they cheer, darting out past him and Viktor towards the parking lot.

The girls chatter avidly all the way back home, regaling Yuuri with stories of what they did in school today, as well as yesterday and all the other days back to last week when classes started. Yuuri hums in all the right places, keeping his gaze fixed on the streets ahead while Viktor asks all the silly questions, interrogating them on the things they learned about in class.

“What do you do, Uncle Yuuri’s boyfriend?” asks Lutz as Yuuri finally pulls into the driveway of a colonial-style house at the end of a small cul-de-sac. The lawns here are thinly carpeted with snow; the half-melted remains of a snowman sit near the shrubs along the walk up to the front door.

Viktor chuckles as he grabs the bag of food from Wegmans. “I’m a model,” he replies.

Lutz’s brows scrunch up in confusion. “What do models do?” she asks.

“We’re paid to try on clothes for fashion designers and magazines, to sell those clothes to other people.”

“You get paid to wear clothes?” asks Loop. “That’s not fair, my mom doesn’t pay me to put on my clothes.”

Viktor snorts. “I don’t own the clothes I model,” he says.

“But if you put on the clothes, aren’t they yours?”

“Not all the time,” says Viktor. “Sometimes designers will give me the clothes as a gift, but not always.”

“That’s weird,” says Axel. “What kind of clothes do you wear?”

Viktor looks over at Yuuri with amusement clearly dancing in his eyes. Yuuri rolls his eyes, gesturing towards the front door. The girls rush to unlock it, while Yuuri locks his own car with a small sigh, jogging a bit to catch up with Viktor and his bag full of food.

“Think they’ll enjoy baking the cookie dough we got?” asks Viktor.

“I hope so, it’s chocolate chip,” replies Yuuri.

Viktor winks. “I’ll eat whatever cookies they don’t eat,” he declares, before pecking Yuuri briefly on the cheek. He then darts on ahead as the girls open the door, leaving Yuuri on the brick-lined front walk, clutching his flushing cheek.

The afternoon passes in a pleasant blur, mixed with the warm aroma of baking sugar and chocolate as Viktor helps Axel and Lutz scoop out a tray of cookie dough. Loop in the meantime sits with Yuuri at the kitchen table, scribbling at a piece of paper with a jumbo box of crayons while Yuuri reads to her from the storybook app on their iPad.

“You have to do the duck noises,” protests Lutz as Yuuri finishes the current page of the story. “Ducktective has to have the duck noises.”

“And what sort of duck noise does Ducktective make when your mom reads it?” wonders Yuuri. Lutz washes her hands and runs over, bouncing as she grips his arm.

“Quack quack!” she squeals. “Mom makes sure all the ducks have their own voices.”

“Okay then.” Yuuri sends an amused glance towards Viktor, who seems to be hiding his grin behind his cookie dough scooper. “‘Quack quack,’ says Ducktective as he leans in close to the print he saw on the lily pad —”

“The frog did it,” cuts in Axel.

“The frog?” echoes Yuuri, raising an eyebrow.

“Spoilers!” shrieks Lutz, nudging her sister.

“It’s obviously the frog! The footprints are frog prints.” Axel rolls her dough into a perfect ball and sets it on the wax paper. “Ducktective and the Constable track the thief across the pond and find it was the frog that stole the dragonfly’s jewels.”

Yuuri heaves a sigh. “Axel, why don’t you let me actually read to that moment?” he asks, before turning the page. “‘What do you think is on that lily pad?’ asks the Constable. ‘Quack quack quack,’ replies Ducktective…”

Once he finishes the story — and Ducktective does, in fact, find out that it’s the frog that stole the dragonfly’s jewels — Yuuri joins them in the kitchen to begin reheating their purchases from Wegmans for dinner. He’s suddenly grateful that Yuuko had insisted on having a double oven in her kitchen, because now he can heat up the lemon garlic chicken breasts and the macaroni and cheese without worrying that the smell will affect the baking cookies next door.

He microwaves the mashed potatoes, though, because he has no idea how the steam oven works and he’s not particularly inclined to figure it out.

The girls complain very little about dinner — the most that happens is Loop whining about the texture of the chicken and trying to wriggle out of eating anything from the veggie platter Viktor slices up for them. But she does concede to some broccoli, wrinkling her nose the entire time, while Axel begs for Yuuri to slice her an apple instead.

Yuuri takes care to peel it and to offer only a little bit of caramel sauce, no matter how much she asks for more.

The girls do their homework afterwards, as the cookies cool down tantalisingly on the kitchen counter. Viktor also tries to help with the homework, though Yuuri has to ban him from it after the fourth time he tries to feed misinformation to them.

“No, there’s no way Martin Luther King Jr. died in 1993,” says Yuuri, swatting Viktor with the girls’ homework folder. “It happened much earlier than that.”

“I heard the FBI caused it,” says Axel matter-of-factly.

“Well, law enforcement wasn’t anywhere to be found on the day he got shot, so I wouldn’t be surprised if the FBI had a hand in it,” replies Yuuri. “The Bureau has always protected the status quo.”

“What’s a status quo?” asks Lutz.

Yuuri sends a long-suffering look at Viktor, who only shrugs innocently at him and gets up from his chair, trailing his fingers over Yuuri’s shoulder before heading to the cooling tray.

“These cookies sure look and smell good,” he remarks loudly as he picks one off the tray. The girls’ heads swivel eagerly at the prospect of dessert, but Yuuri sighs and shakes his head.

“Not until you’re done with your homework,” he warns.

Lutz pouts. “What’s a status quo, then?”

“The current state of things,” replies Yuuri, looking over at where Viktor is pointedly eating a cookie at the four of them, making obscenely pleased noises as he does. Is this _their_ status quo, now — domesticity, the warmth of freshly-baked cookies, the laughter of children? Briefly, the thought of having that sort of thing in his life sends a shiver of something ineffable down his spine, and he tries not to think too hard about it.

Tries not to think too hard about Viktor under the glow of the kitchen lights, sneaking treats to Makkachin while teaching Yuuri the little cooking he knows. Tries not to think too hard about waking up to him like he did today, but every day.

His heart has always raced much farther than the rest of him, after all.

“Okay, but if Mommy and Daddy are in the FBI, and if the FBI killed Martin Luther King Jr., then did Mommy and Daddy kill him?” asks Loop.

“No,” says Yuuri emphatically. “The government might have been to blame for his death, but your parents have nothing to do with it. Some things change.”

“We’re not supposed to tell people that Mommy and Daddy are in the FBI,” adds Axel. “Does Viktor know you’re in the FBI?”

“Well, if he didn’t know already, he knows now,” replies Yuuri drily, as Viktor comes by with a giant platter of cookies. The girls make a grab, but Yuuri swipes the platter away, holding it out of reach of their eager hands. “Come on, finish this worksheet, and then you can have all the cookies you want.”

“Can we make ice cream sandwiches?” begs Lutz.

The girls finish their homework by eight and the cookies by eight-thirty, and end up sticky and covered in ice cream as they sit down in the living room to watch _The Great Mouse Detective_. They all doze off halfway, though, so Yuuri stops the stream, looking over at Viktor, who’s been helping himself to ice cream directly from the tub.

“I’ll replace it,” Viktor says. “I rarely get a chance to eat anything with chocolate in it because of Makkachin.”

Yuuri laughs a little. It’s nice to see these little reminders that Viktor’s human, too, not just some flawless angel descended from the clouds above to bless his short time on this earth. Viktor eats ice cream from the tub, has freckles dotted across his shoulders and back, has little wrinkles and moles and scars that get edited away by the fashion magazines on a regular basis. It makes Yuuri feel a little better about his myriad of shortcomings, at any rate, especially when Viktor licks his fingers clean and leans in for a chocolate-covered kiss.

“Go wash your hands, you gremlin,” Yuuri jokes, and Viktor huffs in amusement as he takes the tub with him back to the kitchen. He comes back with some wet paper towels for them to wipe clean the girls’ faces and hands, before Yuuri nudges them awake.

“Hey. Hey. Go brush your teeth, you three,” he says. “It’s bedtime.”

“It is?” they chorus in a disappointed unison. Yuuri nods, ushering them upstairs in a single-file line. He makes sure they’re all ready for bed before he tucks them into their little bunks, pressing little kisses to their foreheads like Yuuko does.

“When is Mommy coming back?” asks Axel.

“Late,” says Yuuri with a sigh. “She and Daddy are trying to catch some very bad guys.”

“The one that hurts kids?” asks Lutz. Yuuri swallows.

“One of those,” he concedes. “They’re going to be home soon, don’t worry.”

“Good,” Lutz’s expression is wide-eyed, plaintive. “Those bad guys are scary.”

“That’s why your parents need to catch them,” replies Yuuri, “so that they won’t harm little kids like you.”

“But what about you?” Loop peers over from her little twin-size bed, tilting her head. “You’re catching the bad guy that kills people who look like you, right?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath. “I was,” he says. “I’m on break right now.”

“What if that bad guy tries to come and hurt you?” demands Axel.

“Yeah, you have to stay safe, Uncle Yuuri,” agrees Lutz.

“I’m trying,” says Yuuri, patting their heads. “Come on, kids, go to sleep. Your Mommy and Daddy will be home before you know it.”

He can still hear them whispering to each other when he turns off the light and closes the door. The hallway is dim; Yuuri slumps down it before nearly jumping at the shadow looming at him from the stairwell.

“Viktor!” he hisses, as the shadow ebbs back to show Viktor’s mischievous grin. “You nearly scared me!”

“I’m sorry,” says Viktor unremorsefully. He leans against the banister, extending a hand upward. “When are your friends coming back?”

“Yuuko’ll text me when she and Takeshi are done,” Yuuri says as they curl up together. “I’m sorry, it’s probably getting late for you, and you’re still a bit jetlagged —”

“It’s all right.” Viktor yawns widely nonetheless, stretching out. “I don’t mind being here with you.”

Yuuri thinks again about the moment he felt earlier in the evening, of the sudden desire to have Viktor by his side every day, learning every little wrinkle both on his body and in his daily life. What does Viktor’s morning routine look like back in New York? What about his bedtime one? Does Makkachin sleep with him, or in a dog bed? Tiny things tucked into tiny questions running around a big, nebulous hope, and all Viktor had to do was eat a cookie under the kitchen lights for Yuuri to even think about it.

“Something on your mind?” Viktor has been walking his fingers along the curve of Yuuri’s spine, his eyes closed and his breathing steady, but not quite asleep. Yuuri turns, tucks himself even closer, as if hoping to be able to merge with Viktor completely if he could only find the right angle. Viktor draws him in, his lips chaste and sweet against Yuuri’s cheek; Yuuri sighs.

“No,” he says, looking up into Viktor’s eyes. They’re as blue as a sunlit ocean, and just as unfathomable. Yuuri wonders at half of the things that must run through a mind as brilliant as Viktor’s. “Which is saying something, because I haven’t thought about nothing for _years_.”

Viktor chuckles, and Yuuri relaxes as the musk of Viktor’s cologne seeps into him from every point of contact with his skin. Slowly, the model presses more kisses to his face: across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, even ghosting along his lashes.

“That’s good,” he breathes, punctuating each word with a kiss. “That’s the best feeling in the world.”

* * *

_January 11, 2018  
Apartment 56B Pierce Street, Rosslyn_

Yuuri doesn’t remember much of the rest of the night. At some point Yuuko must have come back and prodded him and Viktor awake, and Viktor must have driven them home, because in the morning he wakes up in his own bed with Viktor lying there beside him, his blue eyes contemplative as he traces designs across Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Good morning,” Viktor teases. Yuuri’s chest flutters at that as he leans in to kiss Viktor, savouring the feel of his smile against his lips. “What are we going to do today?”

 _When do you have to leave?_ is the first question on Yuuri’s mind, an ever-persistent worry tickling at the back of his head. But it doesn’t escape his lips, not right now. Instead:

“I was thinking we could go to the National Gallery of Art.” Yuuri tucks some of Viktor’s silver fringe behind one ear. “And maybe to dinner again?”

He doesn’t ask when Viktor needs to leave, but the model offers it anyway. “I have a late flight out from DC tonight,” he says quietly. “10 PM from Dulles, back up to New York.”

“I thought you had to go to Milan,” Yuuri remarks, as the slow sadness of an inevitable parting sinks into his stomach.

“I need to repack some clothes,” says Viktor, his hands gentle against the sides of Yuuri’s abdomen, fingers tapping out some rhythm against his hipbones. Yuuri shivers, angling up to recapture Viktor’s lips, and Viktor goes willingly.

A couple hours later finds them at the National Gallery of Art, lining up to go see the Vermeer exhibition. It’s closing in ten days, according to the signs along the building. Yuuri tries not to think about how quickly time flies.

Has it really been nearing four months since he went off the case?

Inside the exhibition people’s voices are hushed, reverent, as the paintings of the Dutch masters stare down at them from above. Viktor’s hand finds its way into Yuuri’s as they walk amid each painting, admiring the moments they preserve like something caught between a photograph and a dream.

Four months. Yuuri thinks about what he would paint to represent those months. He looks at the brushstrokes blocking out the face of the young woman working with lace, the careful pale lighting of the astronomer’s table. Perhaps something of Viktor, standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial with the sunset reflected across his hair? Or of him in the kitchen of the Nishigori kitchen, smudges of ice cream around his lips?

His mobile pings. Dr Altin has texted him: _Reminder of our meeting tomorrow, as per your rescheduling :)_. It’s calm, professional, nothing like the hurried question Yuuri had shot off at him yesterday morning about Viktor’s visit. Guilt curls a little harder in his stomach, and he’s not quite sure why.

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks, when they’ve emerged from the exhibit and returned to the main gallery, with its permanent collection of art from all over the world and various different time periods. Yuuri sees another sign for a collection of Edvard Munch’s paintings, and thinks about his most famous one.

One that he sometimes still feels like replicating, though the urge comes less and less to him with each new session and each passing week. And now things feel even more fragile than before, as the equilibrium between him and Viktor changes yet again.

“I’m just thinking,” Yuuri replies, tearing his gaze away from the gallery sign. “What kind of art do you like?”

Viktor shrugs. “I like the Impressionists,” he says after a moment. “Impossible moments, temporary moments, all preserved forever in art.”

Yuuri taps his lips at that. “Do you have a favourite painter?” he asks.

“Not really,” says Viktor, tangling their fingers together. Yuuri savours the warmth, as they follow the crowd through the other galleries in the West Building. “Maybe Monet, or Manet? The moments they capture are always so interesting for me.”

Yuuri nods, and begins to steer them into one of the galleries. A couple people stare at them; Yuuri distantly notes the flash and click of camera shutters. But Viktor doesn’t pay them any attention, as he steps up to a picture of a young woman and a girl in front of a railway fence.

“It’s beautiful,” he says quietly, absently stroking along Yuuri’s thumb with the pad of his own. “So different from Vermeer. Less photorealistic, more… emotionally expressive.”

 _Like Viktor himself_ , Yuuri thinks. All of the cameras of the world capture him in fine lines and soft lighting, but never quite get him at his truest — at the deepest, most fundamental essence of him. He’s a series of locked doors down a winding, infinite hallway — an Escher lithograph of a series of neverending steps.

“Manet came from wealth, you know,” says Viktor as they continue through the gallery. “But he rejected the path laid out for him by his family, pursuing his own dreams. I like that about him. I like that he decided to go his own way.”

“Because you never could?” wonders Yuuri. Viktor arches an eyebrow. “Well, you’ve been in the fashion industry for so long. Ever since you were young, right?”

“My mother,” agrees Viktor. “She always did have quite a will. I could never bend her as well as I’d liked.”

“But she’s not around anymore,” Yuuri points out.

“I tried to rebel like Manet, once,” replies Viktor. They stop in front of another Manet, this one featuring a sea of men in black suits and top hats. The painting cuts off too abruptly around the edges, as if there could be more to the scene if only the artist’s brush had panned up a little further. “The moment I could, I went to college to study something other than fashion. I’m not proud to say I couldn’t stick it through until the end, though.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “What did you study?” he asks.

Viktor shrugs. “Not fashion,” he replies with a small, brittle smile, already moving on to the next.

A series of locked doors. Viktor’s already start to drift, running down the Penrose steps while Yuuri’s still busy trying to climb up to where he had been. It’s almost like the case itself, stumbling around at the edges of an Escherian nightmare with the solution — and the unsub — always just a couple steps away, rounding the corner every time Yuuri thinks he’s getting closer.

Viktor, too, is enigmatic even as he is open, a work of art with layers of meaning tucked away in every symbol. Yuuri follows him into the adjoining room, where a small crowd is gathered around a Monet depicting a blue Japanese footbridge over a pond of lilies.

“Monet did countless versions of each painting in different lights,” Viktor says as the crowd shifts, and they step in front of the painting. “Countless renditions of the same bridge, the same flowers.”

“I’ve always wondered why,” admits Yuuri. “I don’t know if I could make so many paintings of the same things, day in and day out.”

Viktor laughs. “It’s because of the light,” he says. “Every day the light is different, and that makes for a different subject. Flowers die with the seasons. The paint on the footbridge peels. That’s why it’s called Impressionism — you only get to capture brief impressions of things before the light changes, and the subject is something else entirely. They had to preserve these moments just the way they saw it, without the use of cameras and other new technologies at the time.”

“Well, when a camera can capture reality perfectly and immediately, I guess that puts artists out of a job,” says Yuuri, but Viktor laughs, taking his hand.

“You can trick a camera,” he says. “It’s harder to trick an artist who spends months studying and perfecting their subject.”

Yuuri’s not sure why a shiver runs down his spine at that, but he ignores it, squeezing Viktor’s hand as they continue through the Impressionist masterpieces in the rest of the room.

* * *

_January 11, 2018  
The Kennedy Center Café, Washington, D.C._

“What are we, now?” Viktor asks, hours later as they sit together on the terrace of this rooftop café, looking down at the wintry tidal basin far below. The gnarled branches of cherry trees peek up along the banks of the Potomac; the river itself shines with a faint sheen of ice.

“It’s not as cold as it was in December,” says Yuuri, feeling a hint of the winter wind despite the heaters strategically aimed at their table. Viktor raises an eyebrow from over his latté, and Yuuri flushes.

“I’m sorry about that,” says Viktor after a moment, sipping at his coffee. “For the endless texting, if it made you uncomfortable. I was concerned, but —” He cuts off, sighing. “There’s no way I can justify that, I’m sorry. I’ll back off.”

“It’s fine,” says Yuuri. “I mean. I was just going through a rough time, so it was overwhelming back then and I just… didn’t know what I could say without making myself look weak.”

Something in Viktor’s expression shifts at that, crumbles a little like the snow from a nearby branch as it falls onto the pavement. “I’m sorry I made it seem like you couldn’t come to me with your problems,” he says, quietly, earnestly, reaching across the table and taking Yuuri’s hand. “I want to be someone you could trust with those sorts of secrets, Yuuri. I want to know you in every way.”

Yuuri sighs a little, feeling the remnants of his snarls about Viktor rolling through his stomach. The aroma of the tea he’d ordered tickles at his nose, warm and calming on this cold January day. In the distance, the sound of crying gulls can be heard.

“The gulls here are different from the ones in California,” he says quietly, the rest of the things he’d left unsaid bubbling violently within him. “But I suppose that’s expected, isn’t it? It’s a different coast, the sun goes down over the mountains instead of the ocean here.”

Viktor smiles thinly. “The first time I heard the gulls crying over the Neva was when I was thirteen, on my last trip back to Saint Petersburg with my parents,” he replies, as he turns Yuuri’s hand over in his, tracing the lines on Yuuri’s palms with his fingers like he’s memorising rivers and trails on a map. “I only ever went back with my mother after my father left her.”

“He left her?” echoes Yuuri, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, they divorced, but the process was long and messy,” says Viktor, shaking his head. “It’s all on Wikipedia; my parents aren’t unknown, either. But my mother never stopped loving my father, not even after the divorce, or the things that happened after. And she never stopped taking me back to Saint Petersburg during the summer, letting me experience the White Nights like she had as a girl.”

“Do you wish you’d gone back to Russia? To live there, as opposed to just visiting?” asks Yuuri.

Viktor shrugs at that. “I think my path would’ve been very different, if I had gone back to Russia.” There’s almost something melancholy in his eyes as he says that. “A lot of things would be different, depending on the choices I’ve made.”

Yuuri says nothing to that. There’s not much to say, not with a warm slosh of tea down his throat, and Viktor’s inquisitive fingers tracing designs into his hand.

“I don’t want to know if any of those changes would’ve meant we’d never meet, though,” Viktor adds after a moment. “That’s the thing I’m terrified of — how delicate this feels, between us. That one wrong step will ruin everything.”

Yuuri laughs drily at that. “I’ve made several wrong steps, and yet here you are.”

“You’ve given me so much life and love, Yuuri,” replies Viktor. “It’s the least I can do in return.”

“What have I _really_ given you, though?” wonders Yuuri, gently extricating his hand from Viktor’s. “I keep holding you at arm’s length, I keep saying I’m not good enough, not strong enough, and all you say in response to that is that you just want to know me. You want to know all of my secrets, like it’d be easier for me to do that instead of shutting you out for four months like I just did.”

Viktor looks slightly taken aback at that. For a moment, his mouth works uselessly, but then he recovers, his brows furrowing as he leans back in his seat.

“What do you want me to be to _you_ , then?” he asks. “Once again, I ask — what are we, _now_?”

Yuuri can’t help himself. He takes out his phone, snaps pictures of them — of the view, of Viktor, of the ice in the tidal basin and the gulls flying over the Potomac. Viktor raises an eyebrow, and Yuuri shakes his head apologetically as he puts his phone back.

“I need to preserve this moment,” he says. _Like Monet, capturing only the briefest slivers of time through his masterpieces_. “I just want to remember you right now, as you are. That’s how I want you, too.”

Viktor raises the other eyebrow. Yuuri takes his hand.

“Just be Viktor, please,” he says. “There’s no one else I want.”

* * *

_January 11, 2018  
Apartment 56B Pierce Street, Rosslyn_

Viktor takes more pictures of them for the rest of the afternoon. They smile in front of various museums and monuments, as well as at the gates in front of the White House and on the steps in front of the Capitol. Yuuri gets a photo of Viktor messing with the Washington Monument, which the model promptly slaps a couple filters onto before putting it on Instagram.

“Let’s go to dinner,” he chirps, and Yuuri is all too glad to comply.

Dinner is warm, languid; they go to a small Italian restaurant in Georgetown and share their dishes, feeding each other forkfuls of pasta from the comfort of their little booth. Viktor’s hand finds Yuuri’s thigh under the table, and rests there for most of the evening.

They stroll for a while along the bank of the river there, after dinner. The wind is cold, the night is velvety, broken only by the golden streetlamps. The sound of students celebrating (or commiserating) the start of a new semester wafts out of various bars and pubs, across the street. Viktor’s hand has migrated from Yuuri’s thigh to the small of his back, and when he leans in, Yuuri meets him halfway.

Their kisses grow more heated in the space of his apartment, more rushed as the evening wears on. They’re now on borrowed time, Yuuri knows — only a couple more hours before Viktor’s flight leaves at Dulles. Viktor hefts him up against the wall, and arousal cuts through Yuuri like a red-hot knife.

“Oh my god,” he exhales, wrapping himself around Viktor, his fingers tangling into Viktor’s hair. “How —”

“Shh,” teases Viktor, winking. His hands squeeze at Yuuri’s ass. “You’ve just gotten lighter.”

“I’m going to die,” Yuuri says, because it’s glaringly obvious how turned on he is right now. But Viktor’s hands are already making short work of his belt buckle, and there’s precious little else he can do except pull Viktor closer, bracing himself against the wall.

“How do you —” Viktor begins, but Yuuri jerks his head towards the Wegmans bag on the kitchen counter — the stuff he’d picked up yesterday along with the food and just left in the car. Viktor’s eyes darken at that; he hefts Yuuri up again and carries him towards the bedroom, swiping the bag with them as he does.

“Maybe we should shower first,” Yuuri suggests as they pass the bathroom, so Viktor sets him down, and Yuuri shimmies out of the rest of his clothes as fast as he can go. Viktor joins him under the spray moments later, his arms coming around him to grip at his cock. Yuuri grinds back against him with a soft moan in response, arching his neck to Viktor’s kisses.

They never make it to the bed. Not when Viktor jerks him off and works him open in the shower with lube-slicked fingers and his tongue, not when Yuuri’s own impatience makes him leap into Viktor’s arms just inside his bedroom door. Viktor barely has time to slam the door shut (despite no one else being in the flat) before he presses Yuuri back against the wall, kissing him hungrily.

Yuuri tangles his fingers in Viktor’s shower-slick hair. “Fuck me,” he breathes, arching his body against Viktor’s, and the model arches an amused eyebrow as he takes Yuuri’s rapidly re-hardening cock in his hand, his movements now smooth and sure.

“Is that an order?” he teases. Yuuri’s cheeks flush at it, but he has to admit it’s pretty hot.

“It’s not just an order; it’s the law,” he retorts, and Viktor gapes at him in surprise for a couple moments before smirking lasciviously.

“If it’s the law, and I don’t follow it, are you going to arrest me?”

Yuuri blinks. “What?” he asks.

“Cuff me, agent,” replies Viktor with a wink, and Yuuri would’ve pinched the bridge of his nose if the rest of him weren’t still incredibly turned on by the proceedings.

“I’m not using my handcuffs on you,” he snaps. “You could get hurt with them.”

“I don’t mind,” replies Viktor cheerily. Yuuri files that away for a rainy day.

“Not tonight,” he begs, casting a brief glance towards the alarm clock by his bedside. “We don’t have much time left, Viktor, just — _please_.”

Viktor lets him down, and Yuuri rips open the foil packet with his teeth, sliding the condom onto Viktor’s cock with his mouth. Viktor’s fingers spread his legs; moments later Yuuri’s knees almost give out as Viktor slides, thick and hard, inside him for the first time.

“Oh my god,” Yuuri breathes, when Viktor is completely seated in him.

“Please, it’s just Viktor,” teases his boyfriend, and Yuuri yanks on his hair again to shut him up with a moan.

It might have been a while since the last time he did this, but the instincts kick in almost as easy as breathing. He arches his body to Viktor’s thrusts, his fingernails digging into his shoulderblades. Viktor’s only lifting one of his legs, but the other feels like it’s going to give out at the sweet slide of Viktor deep into him.

As the pace between them picks up, Viktor hefts him back into his arms completely, bracing him against the wall as his thrusts grow more ferentic. Yuuri draws him in by the nape, swallows his moans in his kisses; when Viktor sucks little marks along his neck, Yuuri’s fingers dig in harder against his scalp.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” Viktor warns suddenly, breathless in his pleasure. His shower-slick skin is warm against Yuuri’s; the rhythm of his hips now erratic in pleasure. Yuuri meets his thrusts with his own, only dimly registering the cool plaster of the wall digging into his back — everything else in this moment is too heated for coherent thought.

“I’d have thought you’d have more stamina from extra practice,” Yuuri muses idly, cupping Viktor’s cheeks. “You’re beautiful and famous; I don’t know how anyone could say no to you.”

“It’s been me saying no,” pants Viktor, part of his sentence drawing out into a low moan as Yuuri’s fingers tighten in his hair. “I’ve been waiting — been waiting _so_ long for you —”

Yuuri feels his chest inexplicably fill with warmth, but he says nothing on it, only captures Viktor’s lips again, feeling stars burst behind his eyes with each thrust.

Viktor comes with a shudder and a small gasp of his name. Yuuri bites down on his collar, his toes curling as he takes himself in hand and starts to stroke. Viktor’s hand joins him; the other grips hard at his ass, and it doesn’t take long after that for Yuuri to come, too.

“God, you’re so…” Viktor’s voice trails off, as he pulls out and gently sets Yuuri back down to earth. His knees wobble; he leans hard against the wall before sliding down to the carpet, his heart still racing a mile a minute inside his chest. Viktor leans in, lapping up the come from Yuuri’s stomach, licking his lips when he’s done. “Delicious,” he finishes, and Yuuri’s cheeks flush hard.

When he pulls Viktor up for a kiss, he tastes himself on the other man’s tongue.

“Why can’t you stay longer?” Yuuri wonders after a long moment of lingering on the floor of his apartment bedroom, calming down the beats of their hearts.

Viktor sighs. “The demands of work,” he replies, extending a hand to help Yuuri up. “But I’m thinking of retiring soon.”

Yuuri purses his lips. “Your career still seems so successful,” he remarks, and Viktor looks out at the window, the blinds throwing bars of shadow and light across his handsome face. Yuuri shivers, and doesn’t quite know why.

“Like I said before,” Viktor says, quietly, sadly, “glamour is overrated.”

They dress in silence. Viktor packs up his suitcase with the sound of the zipper ringing in the space between them. Yuuri’s left with the feeling that he’s been emotionally sucker-punched, but he says nothing as he kisses Viktor at the threshold of his flat, before escorting him out to his car.

The drive to Dulles is quiet, soft. Viktor holds his hand, fiddles with his phone. Yuuri keeps his eyes fixed ahead, despite his heart wanting him to memorise Viktor with his eyes and fingers again. He’d tried to do it back at the flat, tried to tuck away into his memory all of the sensations of Viktor’s touch, but the imminent loss is still too much for him to bear.

“Will you come back to New York?” Viktor asks again, as Yuuri pulls up at the curb in front of his terminal. There’s only an hour left until his flight departure, but Viktor seems unconcerned as Yuuri gets his luggage out of the trunk.

“Maybe,” says Yuuri. “Will you be there when I do?”

“I’ll try my best,” replies Viktor, smiling as he draws Yuuri in, kisses him one last time. There’s the sound of a camera shutter, but Yuuri can’t bring himself to care. Viktor entwines their fingers and then kisses his hand, his eyes soft and longing.

“Take care in Milan,” says Yuuri, every other word he wants to say tangling up against his tongue.

“Stay safe here,” replies Viktor. “I love you.”

 _I love you, too_. But the words choke in his throat, fizzle in his mouth. Instead, Yuuri leans in to kiss his cheek, inhaling one last time the scent of him, mingled with the smell of Yuuri’s shampoo and toothpaste.

Viktor heads into the airport soon after that, but Yuuri remains on the pavement for a little longer, staring at the silver halo of his head as it vanishes into the crowd.

* * *

_January 20, 2018  
Dr Altin’s Office, Baltimore_

“So, Agent Katsuki,” says Dr Altin, and Yuuri is overcome with a sudden sense of déjà-vu as he shifts in his seat, looking around at the dimly-lit office space. The sound of the receptionist typing can be heard over the clanking of the heater.

“You got a new receptionist,” Yuuri remarks. Dr Altin arches an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I might have accidentally let the previous one have some leftovers,” he replies. “This new one insists the last time she was sexually attracted to anyone was when she was in high school, though, so hopefully I’ll have better luck with her.”

Yuuri laughs. “Maybe you should just feed prospective candidates your cooking and gauge eligibility from there.”

“Perhaps,” agrees Dr Altin, steepling his fingers. “But we’re not here to bemoan my secretarial troubles. You said you had a new body?”

Yuuri nods, opening up the email. “I didn’t look at it until now,” he says, skimming through the email’s photo attachments. The body is mutilated and carefully posed on a set of abandoned train tracks, its suit pressed clean despite the bloody wounds.

Dr Altin peers over, recoiling visibly at the pictures. “It never stops getting gruesome,” he remarks, but Yuuri’s brows knit as he zooms in on one of the closeups.

There’s something wrong, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Why do you say that?” wonders Dr Altin, and Yuuri blinks as he realises he’d said that aloud. He feels his cheeks burning, but he shakes his head, and sets the phone down on the table.

“There’s signs of overkill,” he says.

“Overkill,” echoes Dr Altin. “Any kill feels like overkill to me.”

“It’s a more specific term having to do with crimes of passion. Multiple stab wounds, stuff like that.” Yuuri picks up his phone, shows Dr Altin one of the photos. “Multiple stabs to the chest and hips, covered up by the nice new clothes.”

Dr Altin glances, and then pointedly looks over Yuuri’s shoulder. “The jagged edges,” he remarks.

“Yeah, exactly. Stab wounds, signs of hasty dismemberment. This is someone far more disorganised than our unsub. They have a general sense of human anatomy, so they did know where to cut, but they didn’t know _how_ to cut. Then the placement of the stab wounds —”

“Primarily the heart area and the groin.”

“Exactly.” Yuuri nods fervently, feeling the words rushing out of him in a torrent of relief. “Our unsub has never done that — repeated stabbings is too close, too passionate. He does not do passion, at least not with the killings. This was a personal grudge, stemming from a sexual or romantic connection between the killer and their victim.”

“A copycat,” says Dr Altin, his tone appraising.

“We’re looking at a discontented first- or second-year medical student who’s recently suffered some sort of heartache or breakup,” replies Yuuri. “They have enough money to afford haute couture, and follow our case closely enough to know the superficial details of the bodies. My gut instinct is that we’re going to find the killer amid the victim’s social circle, and they’re most likely going to come off as an entitled legacy kid hiding a grudge against their ex.”

There’s a pause. Dr Altin raises an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty specific gut instinct, Mr Katsuki.”

“It’s not perfect, but it’s a hunch. I definitely think the victim knew the killer, though, and that the killer only has the most basic med school knowledge.”

“Could they have dropped out of medical school?” wonders Dr Altin.

“Maybe,” says Yuuri. “But it’s fairly limited all the same. I don’t think they got good grades in school.” He shrugs. “I should tell Phichit that it’s a copycat, anyway. The biggest difference _is_ in the emotions held towards the victim. This killer had frustrations, anger, hatred. My unsub may be indifferent to the suffering of his victims, but he wouldn’t sully them without reason. He loves me.”

“ _Your_ unsub?” echoes Dr Altin.

Yuuri grimaces, feeling the bile rise as a sort of afterthought. “ _The_ unsub,” he amends. “It was just shorthand, I mean — there’s a different unsub for this particular body, because it’s a copycat, so —”

Dr Altin smiles. “I know, Mr Katsuki. And I think it’s admirable that you’re able to analyse all of that with some distance between yourself and the victim.” He pauses. “Do you think you’re fit to return to work?”

Yuuri considers it. Dr Altin watches him, a muted melancholy tucked behind his smooth professional exterior. Yuuri can read it more clearly now than ever, and a bit of his heart wrenches at that.

But still, he has to get back to New York. He has to close the case, and catch the killer, and tell Viktor — tell Viktor —

“Things have changed between me and my boyfriend,” he says.

Dr Altin surveys him for a moment. “I can see as much,” he states, his tone flat. Yuuri’s not sure why that makes his gut churn, but he smiles nonetheless.

“I made assumptions about him that were unfounded,” Yuuri continues. “I thought I couldn’t show him my weaknesses, but he’s supported me through it all, and he — he wants me to just be me. That just feels like an entire weight off my chest, you know?”

“That’s very thoughtful of him,” agrees Dr Altin, his voice and expression both carefully neutral. Yuuri sighs.

“I thought, for the longest time, that I was all alone in this,” he says, fiddling with his fingers. They’re stained by the warm memory of Viktor’s, tightly entwined with his own. “That the horrors of this case were just mine to bear alone. But you, and Viktor, and Yuuko, and my team back in New York — you’ve all been there for me, supporting me.”

Dr Altin smiles at that, but says nothing, and Yuuri finds his voice more strongly as his hands now clench against his knees.

“I now know what love is, and I’m all the stronger for it,” he declares, his voice and posture resolute, determined. “I’m not the man that was constantly teetering on the verge of a breakdown during our first meeting. I’m far more ready to handle this case than he was.”

Dr Altin nods. “You _are_ a different person,” he agrees. “You’ve improved by leaps and bounds. It’s been gratifying to watch your progress.”

“I’m going to catch the Katsuki Killer,” says Yuuri, and this time there’s no revulsion, no hesitation in his voice. “I’m going to bring him to justice.”

Dr Altin slowly rises to his feet, crossing to his desk where the release forms lie. Yuuri watches him, his breath hitching, his heart hammering. With a tight hand, and a slight slump in his spine, Dr Altin leans over the papers, and signs them.

“Then I hope you do catch him soon, Agent Katsuki,” he replies, that tight smile slipping back onto his face. “Both as a concerned citizen and…” his expression twists for a moment in hesitation.

“A concerned friend?” Yuuri asks jokingly.

Dr Altin — now Otabek — blinks. “I. Yes. If you’ll have it.” There’s a faint pink tinge to his cheeks as he says that. Yuuri is only mildly taken aback.

Slowly, he rises to his feet, walks over to the desk where Otabek stands. He hadn’t noticed until now, really, that the man is a little shorter than him. But then again, seeing Otabek as larger-than-life while in the depths of his depression was probably akin to a man looking up from the bottom of a well.

He extends his hand. “Then just call me Yuuri,” he says.

“Please keep me updated on your adventures in New York, Yuuri,” replies Otabek, shaking it. “Take care of yourself.”

Yuuri nods, curt and stiff as he raises a military salute. Otabek smiles a little at that, and offers a more relaxed one before crossing over to the door. At the door, Yuuri pauses with one foot on the threshold, before turning back to smile at his new friend.

“Have a good day, Otabek,” he says.

Otabek swallows. “Yuuri?” he asks.

Yuuri’s not sure why his breath catches. “Yeah?”

“I…” Otabek looks a little lost for words for a moment, his mouth moving uselessly. Finally, he sighs. “Have a good day.”

Yuuri feels a loss that he doesn’t really understand. “Yeah,” he says. “I hope so. I’ll keep you updated when I’m in New York?”

“I’d love that,” replies Otabek, the hints of something tugging at his lips. Yuuri suspects it’s a smile, but he says nothing about it as he leaves the office for his car.

And as he clambers in and starts the ignition to the tune of some ridiculous new bop, Yuuri finds himself smiling, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: references to child sexual abuse, references to Yuuri killing people (in the line of duty), frotting, stepping/foot fetish, oral sex, anal sex, strength kink, top Viktor, graphic depictions of domesticity.
> 
> Wrath: If you come out of this part shipping Otabek and Yuuri, I am not sorry. I am the farthest thing from sorry. I am as sorry as the Katsuki Killer.  
> Lily: Hm. Really.  
> Wrath: I'm so not sorry that I'm writing fanfic of it.

**Author's Note:**

> “I can't go back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” — Lewis Carroll, _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_
> 
> This piece is intended to be part of a longer trilogy — stay tuned for Part Three! In the meantime, find us both on Tumblr: [Wrath](http://exile-wrath.tumblr.com/) and [Lily](http://omgkatsudonplease.tumblr.com/)
> 
> The art in this part was drawn by the amazing bracari. If you couldn't see the illustrations in the fic itself, the pictures can be found [here](http://bracari.tumblr.com/post/173209743920/the-newest-addition-of-corpse-family).
> 
> Also a big thank you to our beta who has chosen to remain anonymous for this, as well as Dommi, who helped with details about the FBI and the Washington DC area, and Luc, who helped with some aspects of the story. We greatly appreciate your help!


End file.
